


Solitude and Darkness

by SumiSprite



Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: And later suicide attempt, M/M, Other, WARNING! For self-harm, and swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-10 07:15:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 202,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2015943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SumiSprite/pseuds/SumiSprite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the RotG KINKmeme. Sometimes mistakes are made. Sometimes misguidance is given. And a lot of time, the best intentions are the worst evil one can commit. Perhaps imprisoning Pitch Black after his defeat wasn't the brightest thing to do. How do you plan to fix something you yourself broke, Guardians? WARNING! For later suicide attempts, self-harm, and psychological trauma.<br/>There is more to life than just Hope, Dreams, Wonder, Memories, and Fun...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Trapped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTICE!!!** All chapters have been Beta'd and edited by a writer on FF.net, _**The Fallen Angel of Pain.**_ So please enjoy folks! No huge changes have been made - errors in spelling, grammar, and punctuation have simply been fixed, and perhaps a few sentences have been added on or taken out. Also! If you have read this fic on Fanfiction.net, you will be familiar with my little factoid footnotes at the end of each chapter, linked to a * in certain sentences. Just something a little fun, nothing you absolutely have to follow. 8) 
> 
> Please enjoy everyone!!
> 
> ~S~

His head hurt.

No, that was false actually. _Everything_ hurt! Everything, down to his limbs and torso, to his damn fingernails and eyeballs. It all _hurt!_

_‘Why exactly does it hurt to begin with?’_ he wondered.

No sooner did he wonder this than his aching body started to regain its sense of feeling. His nerves slowly woke up, the chill of – was he on the bloody floor? – the stone floor seeping into his pained limbs. Pitch decided to cast off the indignity of his position and let the chilled floor soothe his aches and pains.

But with the sensation of relief also came the awakening of sharp, jagged pains coursing through the slender immortal’s body. The once annoying aches steadily grew into mind-splitting pains and burns, all of which were slowly spreading over his body like ivy. There was now no part of his body that didn’t hurt, burn, or sting. It was like he was being swarmed by Toothiana’s infuriating little fairies that were somehow using dull, jagged weapons on his skin and bones – while they were on fire.

Pitch twitched a finger, and groaned at the _grinding_ of raw bones in his fingers. 

But despite the pain, Pitch was more aware of a few more-pressing matters than his own discomfort.

What had happened to him? Why was he on the floor? Why did everything _hurt?_

_‘Get up you bloody fool…!’_ he mentally snarled.

Swallowing his agonized cries, Pitch shakily lifted his arms and planted his palms on the floor. He was somewhat glad he was already laying belly-down. He didn’t want to think of the agony he would be in if he was on his back and had to roll over. 

Mentally preparing himself, Pitch pushed himself up, uttering a strangled cry of pain. He could literally feel his joints grinding with every inch he lifted himself from the floor. His arms were shaking with the strain, his sternum felt like it was about to crack in two, and his abdomen felt like it was about to split open from the weight of his own organs. He barely managed to sit back on his knees – a very painful position now that he thought about it – and with his throbbing head cradled in his palms, Pitch asked himself again,

What in the unholy hells _happened_ to him?

_‘Wait…the Nightmares…’_ a pained frown creased his forehead.

Nightmares…the _Guardians!_ Those wretched, high and mighty, self-righteous, vile _worms!_ All those decades of planning, of scrounging up mere smidges of Sandy’s Dreamsand, of living off of nothing but only the most miniscule of fears. All of it, completely thwarted by four stuck-up wretches! And not only had he been defeated by them, with the help of _children_ of all things, but he was also rampaged by his own creations and dragged back into his hole of a lair!

And Frost…that thrice-damned winter sprite. Pitch had underestimated the little upstart. Or perhaps he had underestimated just how deep the Moon’s influence ran. And despite his rage, Pitch felt a slight pang for the sprite. He had gotten cocky – or perhaps _desperate_. Although that was his first mistake, it wasn’t his worst. His worst mistake was showing such vulnerability in the Antarctica, and actually expecting some sort of positive result. 

_Scorn not the Moon_ , they say. _But its stolen light._

Pitch clenched his teeth, his body shuddering. A pause as he took a shuddering breath through his nose. He groaned from the actions. He could literally feel an artery pulsing in his temple against his fingertip. Each pulse sent a new wave of agony through his throbbing body, and the pain wasn’t letting up.

Pitch’s hand froze as it grazed gingerly over his forehead, feeling something warm and wet against his fingertips.

He had a theory on what he was feeling, but he didn’t want to look. His eyeballs were throbbing behind his eyelids; it felt like needles were being pushed into the gold and quicksilver orbs.

But he knew he had to survey his injuries, not to mention see if any of his traitorous Nightmares were nearby. He would have to figure out how to either reclaim control over them and lock them up, or worst case scenario – destroy them. Though he doubted he could accomplish the latter. Prideful as he was, even Pitch knew he wouldn’t be able to take them on in his condition.

Slowly, the Nightmare King cracked open his eyes, and his sight was immediately met with inky black darkness.

At first he thought his eyes were still closed, or perhaps they were more damaged than he thought. But he could feel his eyelids fluttering over his eyes, and he was able to make out a few vague shapes in the darkness once his sight adjusted.

A sudden sense of dread crawled up his spine, wracking his broken body with a shudder. His senses were suddenly on high, and a strange sense of confinement, like the room had suddenly gotten smaller. What was this? Why was he getting this odd feeling? Yes, he was likely going to be stuck in his lair for some time now that he was at his lowest point in power – again – but this… he had never felt this before…

“Tch…” Pitch scoffed, and seeing a stalagmite to his left, used the sharp stone to carefully hoist himself up onto shaky legs.

The Boogeyman’s knees groaned in protest against the weight, the muscles in his calves and thighs clenching spastically. He internally groaned at the position he found himself in. He never thought he could fall so low. Honestly, it was bad enough being defeated by The Four Halfwits, plus one aggravating winter sprite. But no, he also had to be dragged back into his hole, _by his own creations_ , wake up on the floor, and now find himself clinging for dear life onto a stalagmite. 

_‘Shall I jump off a plateau and impale myself now?’_ He certainly had enough ledges to choose from.

Tempting as it was though, he knew it would only waste his time. If he could just get to his personal chambers, he could treat his injuries – and hopefully his pride – and spend a few months licking his wounds to regain himself. You can’t kill fear, after all; he’d be back on his feet sooner rather than later…

He just had to get into the main part of his lair first. Judging by the gaping black hole above him, he was in the small cavern that led to the connecting tunnel into his Globe Room. The mentioned tunnel, unfortunately, seemed to have caved in, leaving no direct way in or out of the cavern pocket. Though for Pitch, this obviously wasn’t a problem. It was dark as his sense of humor in there, after all. He could just travel through his shadows and spontaneously travel to his chambers. And with time, he would regain control of his rogue Nightmares. Though for now, he was going to leave them be. 

Let them have their fun. Hell, the more fear they instigate in the world, the sooner he could regain his strength. Let the insufferable Guardians have their victory, let them laugh. They couldn’t keep him down forever. As long as there was fear, doubt, and shadows in the world, Pitch wasn’t going _anywhere._

Releasing a choked chuckle, Pitch let go of the stalagmite and let himself collapse over a shadow…

And promptly met with the solid stone of his floor. Painfully.

The Nightmare King swore loud and long in various languages before painfully scrambling onto his hands and knees. He pushed the loosened hair in his eyes back against his head, and snarled at the floor like it had committed some unjust act against him. Though he had to frown at the strangeness of the situation.

He ran a bony hand over the shadowed floor, a very slight spark of dread crawling into his gut. He shook it off as quickly it had come. No, this wasn’t a big deal. He was obviously weak and still a little disoriented. Perhaps his mental command to be taken to his chambers was a too much of a jump for him right now. He’d have to settle for the main cavern of his lair then. 

What’s one slight fluke?

Pushing himself up onto his feet again, Pitch limped over to one of the uneven walls. He paused in front of it, deciding to be a bit more tactical. He pressed his hands onto the shadowed wall.

Nothing happened.

No cool, comforting shade wrapping around his arms. No gentle tug or pull from the darkness. No beckoning pulse. No eager shadows reaching out for him. Not even a ripple against his fingers!

That tiny seed of fear he had swallowed not even a moment ago seemed to sprout and root itself into the pit of his belly. An unnerved sensation spider-webbed from his stomach up into his chest, which was suddenly feeling tighter. It was getting harder to breathe…

Aghast, Pitch withdrew his hands and held them against his chest, his palms clammy. He bit his lip and swallowed around the lump – when was there a lump? – in his throat. He was completely oblivious of his shaking hands, as well as his ragged breathing.

His teeth dug deeper into his dry lower lip.

Something…something wasn’t right. Something was wrong, very wrong.

Out. He needed to get out. There was something wrong, and he wasn’t safe here. He had to get out now – _right now_.

Trying to calm his hyperventilating, Pitch rushed for another wall and slammed his palms against the dark wall, ignoring the sharp sting it brought to his wrists. Nothing happened. The shadows were not yielding to his command.

Pitch fervently tested every single inch of the cavern, touching each shadow to try and gauge a reaction, a sign, anything to prove he was not _trapped…!_

By the time he had scanned every wall, rock and the floor, Pitch felt the crushing seed of fright starting to grow larger. Its vines, barbed with poisonous thorns, were starting to constrict his heart. He didn’t understand why this was happening, he couldn’t be _that_ weak. It wasn’t possible! Even at his worst, he could still use the shadows and darkness to hide and protect himself. And that foreboding sensation…

_‘The hole…I can try there.’_ he thought frantically.

The Boogeyman limped to the hole in the lower part of the ceiling. Panting with anxiety and sheer oppressive doubt flooding his veins like a toxic disease, he reached up to try and grip a rock to haul himself up and-…

Eclipsed eyes grew impossibly wide as they stared up into the hole above them. The once slowly suffocating vines of terror suddenly became a deadly constrictor around his heart. 

_‘No…’_

The large, faintly glowing white circle above him was quite possibly the most menacing thing he had ever seen in his existence. The circle was flanked by five shapes, all of which sported different colors; a green triangle, a purple diamond, a red square, a yellow circle, and a blue hexagon. All of them surrounded the familiar ‘G’ in the circle’s center, slanted lines dividing the shapes and connecting to the edges of the sealed hole in a mock impression of a spider web.

The symbol itself would have meant nothing to anyone else. But not to Pitch, not when he could now clearly feel and identify just what that uneasy feeling was.

It was an imprisonment seal.

And there was only one group of spirits who were capable of such a seal, and only one person who could lend such a spell…

_‘They…they imprisoned me…?’_ he thought.

The Guardians, the Man in the Moon…they all willingly imprisoned him…? He…he was now a prisoner for wanting to be seen? To be acknowledged? To feel like he actually _existed?_

_‘I’m…I’m being punished for wanting to exist…?’_

_For wanting to protect?_

Cold. It was so cold now. There was ice in his veins. The constrictor around his heart suddenly became a venomous serpent. It sunk its fangs into his frantic heart, spilling ice-cold poison into his blood. His nerves were numb, his senses hot. It felt like the floor had suddenly vanished under his feet. Yet at this point, he would have been glad if it had if it meant he could get out…

Pitch never even noticed that he had fallen to his knees, his gaze still locked onto the seal above him. His lips parted and eyes wide, the Boogeyman was completely numb, as if his senses had left his body. He was in a personal limbo of numbing sensations, and deafening silence. He was far past shocked and frightened. No, he was _terrified…_

_**You will never be seen again…** _

Pitch’s body jolted and locked into solid granite. He felt his poisoned heart drop into his stomach as he slowly turned his head around. His eyes locked onto the dozens of amber glowing eyes peeking out at him from the darkness.

His breath hitched as manic laughter filled his ears.

_**Poor, poor Boogeyman…** _

_**Such a pathetic creature…** _

_**You will never be acknowledged now!** _

_**Forever trapped in your own darkness…** _

_**No one will ever love you…** _

The Nightmares and Fearlings emerged from the shadows and surrounded the petrified spirit. Their whispers taunted him with sickening pleasure. Never in his entire existence did Pitch wish so badly that he was actually alone. But no, he was surrounded, there was no escape – he was trapped in a literal lion’s den.

His mouth gaped open in a silent scream. A large Fearling loomed over him and caressed his pale cheek.

_**For who could ever love a monster?** _

To be continued…


	2. An Invitation

North scrutinized the globe in front of him with hard, unreadable eyes. His current resolve was not what one usually pictures when they think of Santa Clause. But to those who actually knew him - who met him in person - this was a somewhat rare but not unheard of position to find him in.

His baby blue eyes surveyed the globe rotating steadily in his Workshop. Or more specifically, on the lights that pinpointed a child that believed in him and his kin. And yet…

They were going out.

It wasn’t at a fast pace – it wasn’t even noticeable for the first few weeks. The changes in the lights was so subtle and quiet, North had only noticed when maintenance had to be done on the rotation mechanism of the globe. He had been helping with lubricating the mechanism with his Yetis, when he had noticed that at least a dozen lights had gone off in steady succession around the western and northern hemisphere. 

At first, he thought nothing of it. Children grew up and lost belief after all, and their lights were always replaced by others sooner rather than later. So North paid no mind to it and simply went on his way.

This happened almost three months ago. And during that time, the lights had been going out in large bulks like the first time, and little to no others were replacing them. To North, this wouldn’t have been too unusual. But once more and more clusters of lights began to go out almost simultaneously – with none replacing them – he began to worry. 

His worry only increased when the other Guardians came to him with their own concerns.

About a month ago, Tooth had flitted into his Workshop, anxiety leaking off of her like molting feathers. She had come to him with a rather unusual worry. Children were losing teeth at an unhealthy rate, and not in the natural sense. The teeth they were losing were not ones that simply fell out like all baby teeth. No, these teeth had been knocked out of their mouths from accidents, brawls, and fights. Her fairies kept bringing in bloody and broken teeth, a good amount of which weren’t even baby teeth.

North, while concerned to a degree, had brushed the worry off rather easily. They were kids, and kids liked to roughhouse and get into a scrape from time to time. He certainly had gotten into plenty of brutal brawls in his youth, and told Tooth not to worry about it.

A couple days after Tooth, Bunny had come over. He had confided to North of his worry for some of the kids he had been seeing during Easter and on his few trips to the surface above his Warren. Kids were starting to wander into dangerous parts of the Australian outback, and approaching dangerous animals of their own accord. Bunny had actually witnessed a child being killed by a dingo pack not too long ago. He had been completely flustered and worried, but there had been little to nothing he could do; the kids could not see him.

North had been quite aghast to hear this, and took the situation into consideration. But it stayed in the back of his mind when Bunny left.

A week after Bunny, Sandy had arrived. North had never seen the golden man so flustered and frantic. He could just _barely_ make out what Sandy was signing to him at the time, and it had taken him even longer to calm the dream weaver down and explain himself.

And from what North had gathered from the sand symbols, Bunny’s and Tooth’s worries were only the tip of the iceberg.

The line between dreams and reality somehow became blurred to the point of nonexistence to not just children, but adults as well. People were doing stupid things, and making even stupider decisions. Kids suddenly believed they could fly, could tame wild animals, and that nothing could hurt them. And the adults…

There used to be an old saying North had heard a long time ago – an idiot and a pair of scissors can be useful, but giving an idiot a pair of scissors is just asking for trouble. In this case, the people who held power became senseless and rash. Small civil wars had recently broken out in various countries, and the chaos had slowly started to leak over borders and seas. It was only a matter of time before something snapped and all hell broke loose. But this raised a question…

What in the name of Manny was going on?

Why were humans becoming so senseless and careless? Why were kids becoming even more frivolous than they already were? 

And Jack, the poor sprite, was utterly horrified and heartbroken by these sudden shifts. His snow days and fun times suddenly became battlegrounds where kids would challenge each other and see just how fast they could go down that iced road and into traffic. Snowball fights were becoming dangerous games of who could bury the next kid alive the fastest and under the heaviest of snow. Ice skating was now about tripping others up, and shoving others near thin ice. Some were too small to fight back, and there was always thin ice.

Jack hadn’t come out of his room for weeks after that particular incident…

And still, even as time passed, nothing was improving. In fact, things seemed to be getting worse. 

_‘Just what is happening to this world?’_ North thought, his jaw clenching as another cluster of lights went out.

The Guardian was brought out of his scrutiny by a large, furry hand shaking his shoulder, a garbled voice barking in his ear.

“Bah! Phil, what is it? Can you not see I am thinking?” he grunted.

The Yeti grumbled something with a sense of urgency, not unlike he had done the last time something was wrong with the globe. Pitch’s last attack was certainly one to remember, if for nothing but their success. 

North’s bushy, salt and pepper brows creased in a deep frown. That day felt like so long ago, when it had only been about fifty years – a mere blink in the eyes of most immortals. There were very few moments North would remember about that day, but they gradually became fewer and fewer. He hadn’t thought of that day in over twenty years; and he shouldn’t have to. They did the right thing in the end…

“What do you mean summons?” North inquired, raising a bushy brow.

Phil gestured to a piece of parchment in his other hand and spoke more in his strange language. North frowned and took the parchment – it was like raw paper, still rough with pulp, and unbleached. It wasn’t even cut into a rectangle, but looked like it had been torn out of a larger piece. 

And scrawled upon the raw parchment in neat cursive was a letter…

_To all Spirits of Earth,_

_You are hereby summoned for an emergency conference with the High Court*. No exceptions are to miss this meeting, as decreed by Father Time and Mother Nature. The Guardians are also expected to attend, no exceptions._

_Sincerely,_  
Mother Nature.

If people thought North had big eyes already, they didn’t see them when he finished reading the summons…

** ~s~S~s~ **

“The what court?” Jack inquired dumbly.

“The High Court, you dill!” Bunny snapped, madly swiping a crude comb over his fur – to no avail of taming the wild patches.

Currently he, North, Sandy, and Tooth were scrambling around the Workshop doing various self-clean-ups. Tooth was preening her feathers, and donned some of her more intricate jewelry – a rare sight. Sandy was trying – and failing – to tame his starburst hair. And North was trying to squeeze himself into a more detailed jacket, which was – obviously – now too small for him. But of course, the man plainly refused to accept this. “It fit six hundred and fifty-seven years ago, it will fit now!” he had said.

Jack, however, was getting comfy on a table and munching on some pilfered cookies.

“Okay…so what’s the Court thing? Is it something important?” Jack asked.

All activity in the room came to a dead stop. Various pairs of eyes – from Guardians, Yetis, and Elf alike – locked onto Jack. He got the distinct impression that they were expecting him to grow a second head and a tail. He was actually tempted to check and see if it actually happened…

“Is it important…?” Bunny rasped, “Is it _important?!_ ”

“Judging by your exaggerated parroting, I’d say it was, in fact, important.” Jack smirked cheekily.

“Jack,” Tooth started seriously, “This is serious. The High Court hasn’t called a global summons to the spirits in over a thousand years! And it’s been even longer since it was coordinated by Mother Nature and Father Time themselves!”

Jack raised a brow at this, “So it’s that bad?”

“Is not so much as bad as it is…” North paused to try and find a proper word, “Strange. It is actually quite worrying. Father Time himself is never one to leave his domain for ‘trivial’ reasons.”

“And the fact that he and Mother Nature have summoned _every_ spirit in the realm for this means it is _dead serious_ business, mate.” Bunny said grimly. 

Jack chose not to throw in the pique he had been saving for a hysterical occasion, as the mere repeated mention of two very powerful spirits – spirits he never met but knew could easily end him – was putting him on edge. The fact that everyone in the room was up in arms was also quite disconcerting to the winter sprite. He had never seen the others this flustered before during the whole time he’d known them – the exceptional time being when Pitch made a grab for power and nearly ended all belief in them. The memory left an unknown, bitter taste in his mouth, which prompted him to push the rest of his cookies aside. He hated revisiting those memories.

“Well, okay, this is serious, but do we even know what this whole world-wide meeting is about?” he asked.

“We don’t know, Jack,” Tooth said, “But it’s best to heed their call. No exceptions are to miss this meeting, and that includes you!”

The fairy then proceeded to lick her hand and try and smooth out Jack’s wild white locks, much to his dismay. Bunny would have been laughing at him any other time, but he seemed more worried about licking his own hair.

“Right! Are we ready yet?” North bellowed.

“Yes, we’re – Tooth, stop that! My hair is _fine!_ – we’re ready!” Jack ducked out of Tooth’s mother-hen clutches and rushed up beside North just as the larger man marched into the launching room for his sleigh. 

“Everyone in!” he bellowed, sliding into his sleigh.

“Uh, I think I’ll just take the tun-”

“Get in!”

Bunny never stood a chance, as he was picked up by his scruff and thrown into the passenger’s seat. Jack barely made it in before North was snapping his reigns, and they were off. North didn’t even bother with his usual stunts and loop-de-loops. Rather he took a ‘short-cut’ that led them out into the air in only a few seconds.

“So…” Jack started, his voice gaining volume over the howling wind, “Where are we going?”

North produced a snow globe from his pocket, absently shaking it in his hand. He brought it to his face and said,

“The Eden.”

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes. 
> 
> 1.) I changed this twice now. It was originally called 'The High Fae Court', but then I changed it to 'The Celestial Court'. But this time, I just changed it to a very simple name - 'The High Court'. Seeing as it is primarily made up of Time and Nature, it didn't seem like a full court - although Death, the spirit of space, and other very high ranking spirits are a part of it, we do not see much of them overall in this fic. Plus, the name just made more sense in its simplified form.
> 
> ~S~


	3. The Eden

The first thing Jack noticed when they emerged from the portal was all the _green_.

The ocean they were flying over was an iridescent green-blue, not unlike Tooth’s feathers. The sky seemed to be stuck in an eternal sunset, casting the sea in a veil of glowing orange, red, pink, and gold. And the island ahead of them…

“The central of all seasons.” Jack looked up at North, perplexed.

“The Eden is an island that forever holds all four seasons of earth,” North elaborated, not taking his eyes off the island before them, “She is expecting us; I do not see lightning or storm clouds.”

Jack looked back at the island again at this. The skies above it were rather clear, save for a few grey-white clouds hovering over it. Was North saying the island was usually supposed to be surrounded by storm clouds and lightning 24/7? That didn’t seem very hospitable…

Jack’s resolve was cut short by a swift gust of wind rushing past him. 

“Up there!” Tooth pointed up above their sleigh. Jack looked up and gasped, eyes widening.

Dozens – no, _hundreds_ of wights, fae, and spirits flew above them towards the island. Some flew all on their own with the aid of wings, magic, or the wind. Some rode other creatures or enchanted animals. And others rode items or other forms of carriage, like North’s sleigh. There was even one riding a giant squid! 

“Grand sight, isn’t it?”

The others yelped at the sudden inquiry on their left side. Looking over, Jack instantly calmed and grinned over at the spirit.

“Hal!” he greeted, leaning over the edge of the sleigh, “Long time no see. How you been?”

“I have been better…” Hal sighed, adjusting his side-saddle position on his witch’s broom*.

Jack frowned slightly at this. Hal looked tired. The light in his glowing orange eyes was dull and dim. His helpers, the Wil-o-wisps, clung tightly to the spirit’s witch’s hat for dear life, their blue-flamed bodies bearing flecks of yellow and orange. And the jet of fire that usually shot out of the end of his broom was not but sputtering embers and smoke. That wasn’t normal*.

“Hallow!” North bellowed over the wind, “Do you know what is going on?”

“No, I just woke up…*” Hal yawned widely, a small puff of smoke escaping his mouth. He coughed violently as the dusty substance stuck to the inside of his throat – also not normal.

“We will find out when we get to The Eden,” he rasped, strained, “Mother Nature rarely summons so many, let alone all of us.”

“Yeah…” Bunny eyed the spirit with a frown, “What’s wrong with you, mate? You don’t look-”

“The Gate is faltering…”* Hal cut in, his eyes foggy and distant.

Before any of them could ask what he was talking about, he turned his head and descended into a focused stream of other spirits down below, just above the water of the sea. Jack frowned and looked over the edge and at the other spirits around them. And now that their concentration was more numbered, he was starting to notice something about them all…

He may not know all of them – or half of them to be honest – but even he knew something wasn’t right with the spirits around them. Many of them looked tired and sick, whatever minions or helpers they had also displaying poor health and a weary disposition. Water element spirits weren’t dripping their usual drops of cool water from their bodies, fire elements were covered in soot and smoking from various places, and other elements just did not look _right…_

Some of them were even too weak to fly, and had to hitch rides from fellow souls as a means to get to the island. Jack was shocked to see a few of these hitch-hikers passed out or lying limply in or on their respective transporter’s rides or shoulders. 

All of them, every single spirit around them displayed at the very least a tiny amount of weakening or sickness. But some, from the darker elements, seemed like they were running on caffeine. Some looked like they were in some kind of internal pain, like they had a bad stomach ache. Others were practically leaking excess power and energy into the air and sea. 

Too powerful, not powerful enough, sick, weary, tired, incapable of moving and flying, some even dropping out of the sky and having to be saved by a fellow soul who could spare the energy…

_What was going on?_

“North…” he started, breathless. The former bandit could only shake his head grimly.

“I know, Jack…” he said grimly.

The island was mere minutes away now, and those who had made it to its shore had either collapsed from exhaustion or were sitting down to take a break. They were just about to pass over them, and Jack was about to ask North if they could go back and help a few of them. But apparently there was no need for this.

From the forest emerged various large animals and creatures – some of which, Jack noted, should be extinct*.

The animals approached a fallen soul and would offer their backs to the exhausted spirits, much to their relief. Steadily, with each landing spirit that was too weak to go on, an animal waited to escort them no doubt to Mother Nature. 

They passed over the beach and flew inland towards the central mountain of the island, along with any other spirit that was still able to make the journey themselves. The horizon was a breathtaking sight for Jack, despite what was happening around him. The island seemed to be divided into four sections. On one side was an all-green and lush floral jungle that smelt of dew and fresh grass. Along it was a similar cut of land, but it boasted more floral life with bugs and other small animals bursting from its recesses. On another side was one he would really like to visit – it was completely engulfed with snow and ice, the trees that were not pine completely bare of foliage. And just below them was a roaring expanse of orange, yellow, and brown, like a tangible forest fire. 

_‘The four seasons…’_ he thought, astonished. 

North inclined his head over his shoulder, but kept his eyes ahead of them, “Hold on tight! We are entering her domain!” he bellowed. 

“Wha…?” Jack swiftly looked up and ahead. They were heading towards the central mountain. Which, upon closer inspection, wasn’t a mountain; it was a _volcano_. And all the spirits ahead of them were plunging right into it!

“Uh, North, you sure this is a good idea?” he asked nervously, “You know, being a _winter_ spirit and all that, I don’t think-”

“There is no fire or lava in it, Jack.” Tooth said reassuringly. 

“What?” he asked, frowning, “Well then, what’s in it?”

“The Eden.”

****

**

~s~S~s~

**

****

Jack couldn’t fully remember what it was he saw when they climbed and plunged into the supposed volcano. All he could really recall was a flash of green, and then suddenly he was here.

Wherever _here_ was…

Jack was awestruck, not just by the lush scenery of what he assumed was The Eden, but also by all the spirits flooding the area. He knew there were a lot of spirits in the world, but he never, ever, would have imagined that so many existed.

Shades, wights, wraiths, nymphs, myths, fae and fairy alike all crowded the cavern – all of which seemed to span the entire underside of the island. It was like an ancient forest without a sky, forever enclosed by an earth and plant covered canopy, each spirit seemingly complimented by the almost eldritch foliage and trees. But like before, a majority of them seemed tired or sick, so were sat down on patches of moss or grass. Groups of tiny nymphs* tended to those who were too sick or weak to move, offering whatever plant remedies that grew on or in the island.

It was such a contrasting sight. This beautiful flora and fauna ruled oasis was now crawling with ailing souls seeking refuge. Those present, who weren’t ailing or tired, stood around with acquaintances and friends, quiet murmurs echoing throughout the underground oasis.

“Why have we been summoned?”

“We should have come sooner! The humans-”

“All of my minions are sick!”

“My lakes have become cesspools!”

“Why would those humans-”

“Mother Nature will know what to do…”

“My land is being destroyed…!”

Jack was unable to catch all the complaints and exclamations the spirits were uttering to one another. One thing was for sure though - something was terribly wrong, and it was affecting everyone around him. And apparently Mother Nature was somehow going to help, or at the very least tell him and the others what was going on.

A bell-like sound averted Jack’s gaze to his left. He caught sight of a familiar mop of blond hair and colorful wardrobe, and wasted no time in flying over to another familiar spirit.

“Harley!” he called, catching the jester’s attention, “Hey, do you know why a lot of these spirits seem so-…”

Jack paused and took in the slumped form before him. Harley’s normally colorful clothes* were spattered with black and white, as if he had a bucket of white and black paint dumped on him. His blond hair was limp and stained white in various places, and his usual grin was missing from his once healthily pigmented face. And the painted tear drop that once fell under his left eye…

“Harley…what _happened_ to you?” he rasped. He was unable to take his eyes off of the black stain that seemed to engulf half of Harley’s face and taper down into his very clothing. The jester sighed.

“I can’t make them laugh…” he rasped. His voice was strained, like it hadn’t been used in years. The jester took in Jack’s appearance briefly.

“You don’t seem to be affected…” he said, offering Jack a weak, almost pained, smile, “That’s good. Do you know if Hal made it?”

“Uh…y-yeah, he flew by the sleigh on our way here,” Jack said, “But…but Harley, seriously, what’s happening? Why does everyone look so sick? What happened to _you?_ ”

Harley frowned slightly at the questions. Jack couldn’t help but shudder at the expression; a frown had absolutely no business being on Harley’s face. It just wasn’t right seeing it on the normally smiling fool’s face. And the monochromatic stain on his clothes and skin…

“You really don’t know…?” he asked, his once smiling green eyes narrowing, “How can you not know…?”

“What? Harley, I really don’t understand why everyone is-”

“Jack!” North waved his hand at Jack, urging the youngest Guardian over, “It is about to start! Come back here!”

Jack blinked but nodded slowly at North. He looked back at Harley, who was giving Jack the strangest look he’d ever seen on the jester. 

“I-I’m sorry, Harley, we’ll talk later, okay?” with his parting words, Jack ran back over to his fellow Guardians.

Harley watched him go, his eyes blinking slowly. His pale lips tightened into a thin line.

“Don’t be like them, Jack…” the jester sighed and shuffled about to find a place to sit. He was so tired…

Jack soon joined his fellow Guardians in the center of the crowd, just as the room fell into a hush. Everyone seemed to tense and focus on a small upraised platform of earth pushed up against a gigantic tree. The platform consisted of a long wooden table that could seat six people easily on either side, plus an extra two for each of its narrow ends. But there were only two chairs set before the table facing the crowd.

A tunnel suddenly split at the base of the tree, and two figures emerged from it.

One was a man clad in white, silver, and gold. He wore a long white hooded cloak with inner silver lining, gears and other clockwork embroidery shimmering along the train. His lean body was donned in a form-fitting tunic that dipped elegantly in the back, but sloped into a short panel at his front. A pair of long and lean legs were donned in a pair of form-fitting grey pants, a strange metallic gossamer trailing behind him with each step he took. Various belts adorned his waist, all of which were decked with various watches, small hourglasses, and chains. His white thigh-high boots, matching to his white gloves, boasted fairly high heels that, upon closer inspection, were not heels, but fist-sized clock gears. The man looked fairly young, around his mid to late twenties. His thick, wavy hair was a combination of light blond and silver, small, soft plaits dripping from his head and lacing with loose, wispy locks that framed his face. 

His skin was toned a pale olive-bronze, a much healthier-looking complexion that was rare amongst usually pale spirits. The man carried himself with a sense of gentility and poise – yet with power. The air around him rippled and writhed like the mirage of heat in the distance. What was odd about the man though was the fact that his eyes were shut, as if he were sleeping*.

The woman beside him was a prominent contrast to the man. She was dressed in a long-sleeved green dress with intricate patterns and embroidery. The leaf and floral patterns seemed to move and glide along her petite figure like living plants, ivy and flowers tracking behind the train of her dress. Her hair cascaded in an ink-black wave down her back, nearly dragging along the ground. The low light in the room seemed to gravitate to her, butterflies and fallen leaves fluttering around her like eager children. 

Unlike the man, who seemed to radiate a sense of gentle calm, she gave off an aura of power and warning; like the coming signs of a storm. She was somewhat pale, not sickeningly so, but it seemed to emphasize her dignified frown upon her painted lips. The air she carried was stern and dignified, like that of a military drill sergeant.

A pair of wood nymphs scurried over and pulled out the two chairs just as the pair stopped before the table. They took their seats and faced the crowd after composing themselves.

A pause of silence followed before one of them spoke. 

“Fellow spirits…” the woman started, her voice echoing throughout the cavern in a clear, commanding tone, “I thank you all for coming, and I sincerely apologize to those who had a difficult journey getting here. But this matter was urgent and required everyone’s attention.”

A bold spirit – a lake spirit, Jack noted from the water weeds in her hair – approached the platform hesitantly, wringing her dry hands.

“Lady Nature, please, what has become of my lakes? I cannot find them anymore!” she cried, desperation visible in her weed-green eyes and trembling voice.

_‘Wait, that’s Mother Nature?’_ Jack thought. Well, he shouldn’t be too surprised, actually. She definitely looked that part, _‘But then who’s the man beside her…?’_

Mother Nature gave the spirit an impassive look, but there was visible grief in her obsidian eyes.

“Jenny…I am sorry, but my surface has told me the fate of your home,” she said gently, “It happened so suddenly, so you may not remember what happened. And I am sorry to have to tell you…but your lakes have been drained and dried by the humans.”

The spirit, Jenny Greenteeth, suddenly became rigid. Her eyes widened, her dry skin contorting with the agonized look upon her drained face. Her hands flew to her mouth as her frail body shook and collapsed, curling over her knees. Her silent sobs were the loudest thing in the room, fellow water spirits sharing her grief.

Shocked and saddened murmurs broke out amongst the crowd, but were hushed when Mother Nature raised a hand for their silence. 

“I am sure you are all aware of what is happening around us, and even if you are not fully aware, I know you all can feel it in your hearts.” She said. She turned her gaze to the man beside her and nodded towards him.

“Father Time here had forewarned me of the coming events, but I was foolish and did not think to prepare you all for it…”

“Father Time…?” Jack breathed, staring at the serene man in astonishment. That didn’t seem right; all the legends he had heard about Father Time from humans had always depicted him as an elderly man. But then again, a lot of the actual spirits were nothing like their dictating legends.

But this wasn’t explaining what was happening!

“Jackson Overland Frost…”

A shudder climbed up Jack’s spine from the deep, gentle voice that addressed him. Jack was suddenly the room’s center of attention, and he could now see why. Even with closed eyes, it was not hard to miss that Father Time had addressed him. The serenely smiling spirit waved a hand to him.

“You have questions, I believe.” He said.

Jack swallowed dryly – why was it so dry? – and stared wide-eyed at Father Time. He was unable to look away from that closed-eyed gaze. A cold, metallic taste invaded his mouth, and a frigid hand was suddenly around his heart. It felt like he was in a well that was slowly filling with compressing water, crushing the air out of him with no hope of escape. His mind was compressed, his vision now blackened into the pure nothingness of a void. A kaleidoscope of color burst within his mind’s eye, and he barely felt himself choke on his own breath. His lungs were invalid now, he was drowning, there was water in his lungs, ice in his veins he was drowning he couldn’t breathe he was _drowning_ no escape I’m going to die drowning drowning _drowning-_

“Time…” Mother Nature sounded like she was scolding the man, her frown deepening, “Stop playing with the sprite, and get on with whatever point it is you are making.”

Time chuckled lightly, and Jack suddenly felt his chest released from that suffocating grip, and his vision was filled with the colors of The Eden. He didn’t realize he was gripping his chest and panting until North helped him to straighten up and calm down. He was doubled over, panting with wide, blown pupils as he tried to withdraw himself from that vacuum-like void. He shakily looked back up at the two high spirits, and saw Time grin.

“My apologies…” he said, before focusing back on Jack and cocking his head, “Please, master Frost, whatever it is that is troubling you, we would all like to hear it.”

Jack managed to recover the rest of his composure and looked around nervously. There was not a spirit in the area that wasn’t staring at him like he was some kind of ethereal being. And all because Time had addressed him? He supposed he’d be staring too now that he thought about it…

He felt Sandy nudge his leg and gave an encouraging nod towards the crowd. He seemed nervous, but eager as well to hear what it is that Time expected to hear from Jack.

He looked around one last time and cleared his throat before speaking.

“U-um…y-yeah, I’m a little confused here…” he started, “Mother Nature said we were all aware of what was happening, that we could feel it, but…”

“But you aren’t, and you can’t, can you?” Time finished for him, his oddly kind smile quirking slightly to one side.

“Uh, yeah. I mean, I don’t think any of us – the Guardians, I mean – know what’s going on…” he looked to his fellow spirits, “Erm, right?”

Though hesitant, the others nodded slowly at Jack. A sudden increase in murmurs and whispers erupted around them. Spirits were giving them odd looks not unlike the one Jack got from Harley, some whispering to each other with strange frowns and confused eyes.

Mother Nature herself frowned at this, “You are completely unaware…” it wasn’t a question.

“Uh, no…” a punch in the arm from Bunnymund, “Ow-uh, no…ma’am.”

Mother Nature slowly nodded and looked over at Father Time. The man paid her no mind, instead continuing to look serenely out into the crowd while absently fiddling with one of the pocket watches on his belt. She made a suspicious noise before clearing her throat and looking back to the spirits.

“Well then, to answer your question, Jack Frost,” she started, eyes sweeping over the crowd, “As of a few years ago, the human world has been steadily shifting into…”

She slowed to a pause, her frown lightening up in a very vague look of surprise. The spirits muttered to one another in concern as Mother Nature looked out over them again. A few of the more timid spirits jumped when she suddenly stood up and swiftly continued to look out over the crowd. Her frown soon returned, but it seemed more concerned than anything else.

“Where is Pitch Black?” she suddenly asked. 

A wave of meticulous voices broke out amongst everyone, except the Guardians. Spirits looked around at one another and into the shade of trees and foliage, as if they could catch a glimpse of the named Boogeyman. But none were found; no flashes of gold eyes, sharp or jagged teeth, nor of a slender black body contrasting against the more colorful scenery. The darker spirits seemed to grow frantic, while others outside their circle started to make their own hysteria known.

“Where is the Boogeyman?”

“I thought no exceptions were to miss this…”

“Do you think he’s the cause of our pain?”

“Why else wouldn’t he be here?! He caused this!”

“The world is falling into ruin because of him!”

The once hushed voices suddenly became a loud uproar. The once silent and whispering dark shades around them all suddenly bristled and snarled, as if they were personally offended. Chaos broke out as conflicts arose, the shades and wraiths hissing and spitting at spirits that walked under the light of day, and light spirits throwing accusations at those who lurked under cloaks of shadow.

Mother Nature looked out with a dark glower at the spirits, as if she had been personally insulted. Time, however, continued to look on with an amused smile. Jack only now seemed to realize he was looking right at him, that gentle smile somehow conveying a dark mischief. Jack swallowed around a lump in his throat, unable to look away from the man. He tried valiantly to focus on anything else, perhaps on the slender finger toying with a gold and silver plait, but he could not look away.

“Wait, wait! Everyone! Please, it is not Pitch! It cannot be him!” North tried to bellow over the crowd, breaking Jack out of his trance.

Mother Nature’s head veered over to him, as if she had heard him. The woman narrowed her eyes, and averted her gaze to a stoic woman dressed in teal and black robes.

“Libra…” the silent request received, the Spirit of Justice and Order raised a hand.

“ **ORDER!** ”*

The loud, booming bellow that reverberated from the slight woman was deafening and shook the very ground they stood on. Any and all animals that were caught in the fray startled and fled from the earth-shaking command, while all spirits that participated in the chaos were silenced into stunned stupors. 

Lips set in a tight frown, Libra lowered her arm and nodded over to Nature.

“Thank you, Judge Libra.” Nature said. She fixed everyone in the room a dark look.

“How dare you all make assumptions due to his absence?” she snapped, “You are all aware of what is happening, and therefore aware that these events are not happening because of too much fear, but lack of fear.” 

_‘What…? No fear?’_ Jack frowned in confusion.

Mother Nature averted her gaze to North, “North, you claim this is not Pitch’s doing. And despite my doubts, I want to be certain…” she briefly eyed Father Time out of the corner of her eye, “How do you know it cannot be him?”

The spot light now on them, the Guardians held themselves much better than Jack had when he was at the center of the attention. North waved a hand dismissively as he spoke.

“Bah, is impossible,” he started, “He cannot be cause, because seal cannot break without Manny’s permission.”

Mother Nature’s frown deepened, “Seal? What seal?”

“You’re all probably aware, but we beat that bloke back into his hole after a take-over attempt fifty years ago,” Bunny supplied, “We got sick of his constantly clawing on our nerves, so we got help from Manny and sealed him away for a bit of a ‘time out’.”

“Yes, we all agreed to this, and Man in Moon approved!” North crowed, “So this trouble cannot be Pitch, the seal is made by Manny himself, and is unbreakable without his powers. Pitch cannot even use shadows to get out!”

Complete and utter _silence_.

The sudden shift in atmosphere was like a cold tidal wave that crashed into them, and the change was swift yet steady.

Once unsure and angered expressions contorted into utter horror. Mortified faces just stared at the Guardians, aghast. Many spirits shuffled back and away from them like they carried some kind of plague. The darker spirits were especially mortified, all of them shuffling far into the crowd and as far away from them as possible. No one spoke a word, they just _stared_ at the Guardians like they had suddenly announced they were going to start eating children.

Jack was the first to break the silence, his confusion evident.

“What?” he asked, honestly perplexed, “Hey, the guy had it coming. He nearly killed the Guardians and-”

“You…” the once dozing Hal was now fully awake, and Jack was oddly disturbed by the horrified look on his porcelain face, “You sealed him away…?”

“Well…yeah,” Jack started, suddenly feeling put off by his friend’s look, “He was giving kids nightmares, and he nearly killed the other Guardians when he nearly extinguished all belief in them.”

Hal was shaking now, “Jack…the Guardians wouldn’t have _died_ if they lost all belief…they would just be weakened and lose their powers…” the spirit’s hands were shaking around his witch’s broom, the weak wisps around him taking refuge in his clothing.

“What…?” Jack frowned and looked around at the other spirits, as if trying to find some means of denial from them.

“Are ye tellin’ us…ye sealed away a fellow spirit because he was doing his _job?_ ” St. Patrick broke in, his voice rasped in his own disbelief.

“His _job?_ That wasn’t a job! That was nearly cutting out all belief in us and scaring the snot out of the ankle-bitters!” Bunnymund snapped.

“But for _fifty years?_ ” Cupid now broke in, the cherub having to land so he wouldn’t crash in his stunned stupor*, “You all would be so cold as to confine an already isolated man to a living hell?”

“Now wait a minute! That’s not the point!” Tooth defended, “He harmed us, and the children! We had no choice!”

“Yeah, if we let him get off with just having Tooth knock a chopper out of his mouth and let him be dragged home by his own Nightmares, he wouldn’t have learned not to mess with us!” Bunny snapped.

Loud gasps echoed around the cavern, followed by disturbed and frightened muttering. By this point, Jack was completely lost now, his mind unable to keep up with all these raging emotions and fears. He knew it was a harsh punishment, yes, but if it meant Pitch would learn his lesson and leave the Guardians and the kids alone, then he was going to provide his own support in it.

But that look Hal was still giving him…it was like he was seeing something in Jack for the very first time. Something he never wanted to see, and had never even dreamed of seeing in him; he looked like he had been _betrayed_. It put Jack on edge, and it frightened him.

“Hal, come on, back us up here, we’re not hurting anyone,’’ he tried to reason.

Hal continued to shake like a frightened animal and covered his mouth, shakily shuffling over to hide behind the towering form of Patrick*. The vigilant Leprechaun put a large hand on a narrow, shaking shoulder and glared nastily down his nose at Jack and the Guardians.

“Ye all are sick!” he barked, “Not hurting anyone? How dare ye! Would ye lock Hal up because he scares kids sometimes? Would ye have him or any other wraith or dark soul sealed away because it is their duty to frighten others?!”

“What? No! Of course not! Hal is harmless!” North defended, holding his hands up.

“Oh? What ‘bout Cupid? He’s capable of manipulating hate an’ love to his whim, are ye going to lock ‘im up too?” Patrick snarled, “Or Harley, we all know there are plenty of kids scared of ‘im cause of how he looks. Would ye have ‘im locked up like a rabid beast too?”

“What? No! Why would we-?!” Jack was cut off as other spirits started spouting their own accusations at him and the Guardians. 

Mother Nature, however, was silent, her eyes wide and her mouth set into a tight line. She looked stunned, as if she had suddenly been slapped. The onslaught of voices finally seemed to register in her head, and when they did, it was like a string had snapped.

“You _imprisoned_ him…?” she hissed quietly.

But it was loud enough to be heard by all, including the Guardians. Everyone fell into a hush again, but this time they did not look at Mother Nature or resume their composed positions. Rather they all lowered themselves into submission, as if preparing for an attack. A rainbow of assorted eyes remained on the Guardians, but it was the pair of obsidian orbs that locked onto them like missiles that gave them pause. 

Mother Nature’s eyes constricted into black holes, her frown contorted into a dark, nasty glower. The wind howled and roared around her as her ire increased, billowing her dress and hair in a vicious display of the pure, untamable wrath of nature itself. 

“How…dare you…” she growled, “How…how _**DARE YOU?!**_ ”

In one swoop of wind, she was on the Guardians like a ravenous beast. Vines and roots erupted from the ground under them and quickly bound their bodies to the spot, and none too gently. Tooth yelped as her wings were bound and constricted by roots like snake coils. Angered birds swooped down and stole their weapons, the wind roaring wildly in their ears in a macabre imitation of angered shrieking. 

The wind let up just the slightest bit, enough so they could open their eyes and not be pelted by debris. But they suddenly wished for the wind again, as they came face to face with the visage of Nature’s wrath.

“Take me to him,” she hissed.

“M-Mother Nature, why are you-?”

“Take me to him **NOW!** ” she shrieked. She turned to look at a frightened Sandy bound in her roots, and suddenly released him.

“You! You are going to be a good little sand-flea and summon your Moon,” she snarled, “Tell him Nature demands his audience, and she will _not_ take no for an answer!”

Sandy looked to his fellow Guardians, his expression full of worry and fear. He looked from them and back to Nature, a tiny question mark forming over his head.

“I will decide whether or not I spare them from my wrath,” Nature hissed, before she leaned down to Sandy and growled, “But mark my words, Sandman, if your Moon refuses an audience with me, you can rest assured that they will become _plant-food_.”

Jumping, Sandy nodded again and hopped up onto his Dreamsand cloud. He gave the Guardians one last worried look before flying off as fast as he could. 

Once he was gone, Nature turned her attention back to the Guardians. Her gaze was merciless.

“Do you have _any_ idea what you have done?” she hissed.

“Mo-…Mother Nature…” Tooth squeaked out from her tight binds, “Please, we don’t understand why this is such a serious offence! His acts would have been a crime even in your eyes!”

“How _dare_ you patronize me?” Mother Nature tightened the binds around Tooth, but North suddenly grunted out a defense before anyone could get hurt.

“Mother Nature! Please, explain to us,” he rasped, “What has this to do with the other spirits’ conditions? What crime have we committed?”

“Are ye lot so oblivious that you-?!”

“Hush, Patrick…” Nature snapped, causing the Leprechaun to back off. She sneered at the Guardians before her.

“You want to know why I am so angry? Do you honestly not see why my ire was incurred by your imprisoning of Pitch Black?” she inquired.

“N-Nature…! You can’t just…just cause of his past with you, you can’t-AUGH!” Bunny choked as a new vine wormed around his throat and squeezed, Nature’s stormy gaze now looking murderous.

“How _DARE-!_ ”

“That is quite enough.”

The wind calmed slightly from the voice, but did not fully let up. The binds around the Guardians only loosened enough for them to breathe properly, but they still remained suspended and bound. A bemused chuckle broke out over the whistling wind, causing all eyes to avert to the time spirit now joining Mother Nature at her side.

“It’s simply amazing how naively _human_ you all can be…” he chuckled, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear.

“Time…” Mother Nature gritted out, her hands clenching. Her plants quivered, as if they were all too eager to wrap around the man’s slender neck and take his head off.

“Oh hush dear, you can’t expect to punish them without telling them of their crimes, can you?” he inquired, quirking a brow.

Mother Nature only clenched her hands harder, a few small roots crawling up Time’s boots. He merely chuckled and ignored them, looking towards the Guardians with his sealed eyes.

“Our beloved Earth has been plunged into a World War recently, which is destroying realms and claiming lives, both immortal and mortal, left and right,” he started, “And all because nation rulers have no fear of stealing lives and consequences.”

His mouth suddenly widened into a grin, a flash of sharp teeth and a pointed tongue ghosting over full lips.

“You, Guardians of Childhood, damned an entire civilization, children and all, to an early grave, because your pride would not allow the King of Fear to exist…”

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes.
> 
> (These footnotes exceeded the character limit here. To see them, follow the link for this chapter on FF.net, including footnotes at the end!)
> 
> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9153154/3/Solitude-and-Darkness
> 
> ~S~


	4. Scream

North’s sleigh was not to be their method of transportation, or so Mother Nature had said. Without any preamble or thought, Nature had demanded North to use one of his snow globes to take them to Burgess and to the entrance of Pitch’s lair. But only after she drew them all closer to her face with her binding vines and hissing,

“If your Moon and little sand-fly are not there, I will feed you all to my flytraps. _Alive_.” 

The threat was only made more real by the hissing of some rather large-looking Venus Flytraps just at the entrance of the tunnel they had arrived through. North had one of his arms briefly released so he could take a globe out of his coat. Mother Nature snatched the globe away and clutched it in one of her hands before she turned back to the crowding spirits behind her.

“As for the rest of you, any and all of whom have been affected by these imbecile’s actions, I urge you to remain in The Eden for your own safety,” Nature announced, “You will be able to continue your jobs from here with the help of my nymphs.”

Confirming murmurs and nods were given as the crowd steadily broke up, various spirits going to find a place to rest off their illness and fatigue, while the darker souls vanished into the shadows. Once she was sure everyone was settling or leaving, Nature scowled back at the Guardians. 

The vines detached themselves from the ground but still bound the Guardians in a slightly weaker hold.

“Hal,” Nature called, not taking her eyes off the Guardians.

The weary Homunculus, still hiding in the refuge of Patrick’s suit jacket and muscular arm, nodded at the silent request and propped his broom up against a tree. He pushed out of the Leprechaun’s hold and clenched his oversized gloves into tight fists. Cinders fell in hot flakes from his burning hands, smoke billowing into the air in dull black plumes. His hands shook briefly before they stopped, and he opened his palms. Two long lengths of raw metal chains were revealed in the oversized palms, the metal links smoking and still heated from their formation*.

Without a word, Hal shuffled towards the Guardians and wrapped their wrists with the chains, leaving only around a foot of slack between their wrists. He deftly yet meticulously welded the chains around each of their wrists, drawing hisses and winces from the still hot metal being tightly soldered to their limbs. When one set of handcuffs was complete, he would burn the excess length off, reattach it to the slack in front of them, and then move onto the next. He faced the last Guardian, Jack, and kept his gaze lowered from the winter sprite.

He couldn’t block out Jack’s pleading voice though. “Hal…please, don’t do this,” he pleaded.

“Arms up, wrists up,” Hal quietly yet apathetically requested. 

“Hal, this isn’t like you! Please, you gotta believe us and-”

“Shut ye gob and do as the lad says ye swine!” Patrick snapped, brandishing his golden brass-knuckles*.

Jack immediately shut his mouth at the threat of being on the receiving end of the Leprechaun’s golden knuckles. He gave Hal one last pleading look before sighing and offering his wrists to the fiery spirit. The Halloween herald cuffed his hands and welded the excess to the slack, linking the Guardians together in a line. Everyone now chained together, Hal turned and offered the lead strip of chain to Mother Nature.

She took the chain and clutched it in one hand, the other occupied by the globe. She shook the globe absently before uttering their destination into it.

“Burgess, the entrance to the Boogeyman’s prison.”

A vortex of color exploded as she threw the globe. Her eyes remained trained on the Guardians in her clutches briefly, before her gaze averted to the serenely standing Father Time.

She opened her mouth, as if about to say something, but immediately closed it with a loud click of her teeth. Time only smiled gently at her.

“Tick tock, my dear,” he purred, gesturing to the – Jack had to do a double take – small, round gold and silver clock imbedded in his left breast, “Time’s running out.”

Nature’s hackles rose, the vines binding the Guardians suddenly growing small thorns in time with her ire. She swiftly turned her head away from Time and yanked on the chains. She lead the Guardians forward and towards the vortex, and out into the dark woods of Burgess…

****

**

~s~S~s~

**

****

Burgess, being a small, quaint little town, almost always had clear skies and even clearer nights. Every star one could imagine could be seen in its skies, and the moon would always be ever bright and dominate the blue-black canvas that made up the horizon’s veil. But now, it seemed like the sky had been stained, the silken blue veil bleached with clouds of pollution and smoke. The air was thin and smelled of exhaust and other fumes. The forest trees were nearly barren, bearing only but a few pathetic, dark leaves desperately clinging to branches like men on a noose. 

It was so different from what Jack remembered.

Jack hadn’t been to Burgess in almost ten years. Far too many memories were in that little town, all of them cherished by none but him. The Burgess kids who had once been so little, so brave, had long since grown up. It was so long ago, but even still, Jack could remember each day one child took to forget him. Birthdays had never seemed so bleak to Jack at that time, but with each candle added onto a cake, a believer was lost. All but Jamie had forgotten about him – all through middle school, to high school, even through college! And Jack, naïve Jack, held out the hope Jamie would always be able to see him. But one day, the Bennett boy – not so much a boy anymore – slowly started slipping into the adult world. A couple years after his marriage to a college sweetheart, he walked through Jack when the sprite had come by to say hi.

That was over thirty years ago, and after that, he progressively stopped coming to Burgess as the years passed. And yet here he was again. Back in the same town that once held his first handful of believers, and yet it looked no brighter than a crushed firefly under someone’s shoe. 

His once home now felt like a desolate land of memories that left a bitter taste in his mouth.

A yank on his chain brought Jack’s attention back to the problem at hand. Nature took in the dry, infertile ground before them. He felt a shudder go up his spine as they crossed the edge of the small clearing.

The ground in the center of the grove was as bare as he remembered. The only indication of anything being once there was the burst of darkened soil surrounding what was once the entrance to Pitch’s lair. One would think someone had set off a rather large firework in the spot, and yet the burst of burned dirt remained after all this time.

Jack and the others were relieved to see Sandy heatedly pacing just on the other side of the clearing, concern marring his pudgy face with worry lines and a creased frown. 

“Sandy!” Jack called, his bleak mood somewhat lifting at the sight of the golden Guardian.

Sandy’s head shot up to look at his name being addressed. A relieved smile broke his face as he swiftly flitted over to the Guardians. But he frowned and stared in shock at the chains around their wrists. He was about to inquire why they were chained up like common prisoners, but was cut off by Nature.

“Where is your Moon, worm?” she hissed.

Sandy seemed to remember just why he was there and what he was supposed to do. Frantic and flustered, he hastily formed various images in a silent tale of complications. Apparently their Moon was working to break through the clouds – which, upon closer inspection, were not clouds, but plumes of pollution.

Mother Nature clenched her hands and bared her teeth at the Sandman, causing the star to fidget. Sighing through her nose, Nature raised a hand up towards the sky. She mentally grasped the winds and pushed them up into the atmosphere. Slowly yet steadily, the haze of pollution began to clear away, revealing a faint light of the Moon breaking through the other side until it was fully visible through the cleared ring of haze. Moonbeams shot down along the edges of the haze to keep it at bay as the winds died down.

Her hand shaking, Nature released her weak hold on the wind and sighed shakily, obviously weary. North made to help support her, but the nature spirit slapped his hand away.

“Don’t you _dare_ …” she snarled. She looked over the Guardians with an expectant scowl.

“Well?” she hissed.

“Ah, we be needing weapons to break seal,” North said hesitantly, “They were infused with magic to become seal’s keys.”

Growling lowly to herself, Nature waved a hand. Browned vines sprung up from the ground, clutching the Guardians’ confiscated weapons. The frail vines released the swords, the boomerangs, and the staff before they shuddered and withered away. 

“Now stop stalling and open the seal,” she hissed.

Though hesitant, the Guardians picked up their weapons – North’s sabers, Tooth’s rapiers, Jack’s staff, and Bunny’s boomerangs. Sandy himself brought out a seashell from his suit and joined the others as they surrounded the hole*. Above them, the Moon shone brighter and sent down a single, narrow beam of light onto the center of the covered hole.

When it touched down, the seal revealed itself in a phantasm display of glowing blue lines and shapes circling the lair. The Guardians looked to one another worriedly, but a warning glare from Nature prompted them into proceeding. Each Guardian, after working around the chain links, took a place around the seal before placing their weapons over its edge.

The reaction was near instantaneous. A loud, strained crack was heard, like contorted glass finally starting to give under pressure. And like glass, visible cracks formed over the seal, spider-webbing out towards the edges. The seal seemed to shudder, and the Moonbeam strengthened and thickened, suddenly plunging into the seal like a baseball through a car window.

The loud, ear-piercing sound of glass shattering was deafening and painful, as if the shards of glass themselves had plunged into the gathered spirits’ eardrums. The seal literally shattered under the Moonbeam, the glowing lines and shapes vanishing into phantom gossamer. 

All that was left in the clearing now was a perfectly round hole that seemed to endlessly plunge into the earth. A booming gust of air shot out of it, as if the seal had also suppressed the air inside of it. 

Nature yanked on the chain, prompting the others to gather around the revealed hole with her. All eyes stared down into its depths. It was endless darkness, an inky blackness that not even Sandy’s night-vision could penetrate. Had it always been this dark?

A rustling sound – like water rushing down a drain, or air whooshing down a tunnel – blared silently through the tunnel. But with each passing second, it was getting louder. And louder…

Bunny’s eyes widened and his ears pricked up. “Back off!”

He barely had a moment to make sure everyone was a few steps away, before the hole erupted like a miniature volcano. Inhuman shrieks that turned blood icy cold and stole away mortal’s sanity echoed around the clearing. The geyser of black sand and shadows was thick and dense, a roiling mass of cackling, shrieking, whispering darkness. All of it sent everything within the clearing reeling, sensations of madness, fear, compression, oppression, _suffocation!_

Everyone stared wide-eyed and stunned as the eruption of shadows shot for the sky and moonlight before bursting into a whirlpool that spread out over the grove. The Moonbeams writhed as the darkness bit and thrashed at them. And all around them, the Guardians and Nature could hear voices among the shrieking masses. Whispers and screams and cries, burning cold emotions of madness, fear, compression, oppression, _suffocation can’t breathe can’t breathe let me out please someone help help me let me out let me out **LET ME OUT!**_

The Moon suddenly brightened, as if struck, before sending down more powerful Moonbeams. Dozens upon dozens of beams of light shot like bullets down into the writhing masses of black sand and shadows, all piercing each abyssal essence like a knife through butter. 

No one thought the loud screaming could get any worse. But the moment the Moon’s beams plunged through the mass of darkness, their hearing was practically lost. The writhing vortex of blackness was laced with the illuminating light, the sand particles and wisps of shadows destabilizing into a writhing, unstable mass. His power fading with time, the Moon shoved the last of his strength into another burst of light, plunging it all the way down into the abyss of the earth.

The white inferno engulfed the shadows and sand fully at that point, the screams slowly being muffled and dying down as each grain and shade was extinguished. Once the last voice was silenced, the shadows collapsed, leaving behind nothing but dark glass-like particles, and strange forms and silhouettes burned into the trees and ground surrounding them. The light suddenly cut off, the Moon dimming as his power waned.

A long moment of silence smothered the grove, the Guardians and Nature still stunned into defensive huddles around one another. But once it became apparent that the mental attack was over, they all slowly uncurled themselves from their guarded positions. 

Mother Nature, covered in a protective shield of earth against a tree, slowly allowed the chunks of dirt and rock to fall away from her. The Guardians were worse for wear from the assault on their senses, but overall unharmed. Jack groaned and held his head from the splitting pounding behind his eyeballs. He cracked his eyes open to survey the area. But all he could see was a thick wall of ice. Somewhere during the whole ordeal, Jack had thrown up a wall of ice to block out the bombarding mental-attack, but it had only served to muffle it at best. 

The Guardians, still slightly incapacitated from the overwhelming stimuli, were briefly rendered deaf and blind to the world around them, their hearts hammering into their ribcages and blood rushing through their ears. The return of their senses was both a relief and a curse; pain erupted behind their eyelids and in their eardrums as sensations returned to their proper places. 

“Get up.” Was the curt demand looming over the doubled over Guardians.

Nature hovered over them impatiently, her face set in her customary scowl. She didn’t seem to be at all affected by the metal attack, but the shaking of her fists betrayed her stoicism. 

North shakily got to his feet with the help of his sabers, “Mother Nature, please, this is not safe. We cannot risk going down there and-”

The red Guardian’s words were cut off by a rather sharp dagger of obsidian being pressed through his beard and against his throat. The others were instantly on their feet and alert, but unable to bring themselves to even think about attacking Nature – even as she held a knife to North’s neck.

“Let me set a few things straight here…” Nature said calmly, “I _do not_ care if any of you perish down in that hole. The only reason I brought you here with me is to undo the seal, and use your bodies for shields should any Fearlings or Nightmares attack.

“None of you are a necessity. I could not care less if any of you die; you are of no real importance to this world after all. All of your so called ‘centers’ are not things that keep humans or my planet alive. All of your wonder, hope, memories, dreams, your _fun_ , it is all obsolete. The only reason I do not gut you all right now is because I know other spirits would weep for you…”

Nature pushed the dagger further to North’s neck until the tip pricked his jugular.

“And believe me, Guardians, I am _not_ a merciful woman…” 

The volcanic glass blade left North’s neck at her last words, the tip glistening with the tiniest drop of blood, all of which was swiftly flicked down onto the ground – as if the Guardian’s blood was toxic to her blade. She picked up their chain and yanked them towards the hole.

“Jack, Sandman, come here,” she demanded.

The frost sprite froze up at this and swallowed dryly. Whether it was from remnants of the mental attack from the shadows and Nightmare sand, or something else, Jack was scared. He was scared of Mother Nature, one of the very beings who defined his very element. Of a being who threatened his and the others’ lives without remorse. 

He startled when he felt Sandy place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. The Dreamweaver gave the sprite a reassuring, though meek, smile. Jack gave a grateful nod to the star and approached Mother Nature with Sandy in tow.

Nature grabbed his wrists and broke his chains with a deft tug. Jack wasn’t sure whether to be relieved his wrists were free from their tight confines, or frightened that such a petite woman could snap Hal’s chains with a flick of her wrists. He rubbed at his sore wrists as Nature glared at the other Guardians and Sandy.

“The rest of you will stay up here,” she said, “These two will accompany me below. And if I should come back, and you all have run off…”

Her blade was suddenly pointed between Jack’s eyes, paralyzing the stunned spirit in his place.

“Consider your youngest addition dead. Again.” The steady, unwavering threat was not to be taken lightly. Whether anyone knew her well or not, everyone knew Nature was not a merciful, nor a kind, force.

The elder Guardians shakily nodded, all the while restraining themselves from making protests. There was nothing they could do in the long run; even if they ran, they could never escape Nature. This was her planet after all, and there was no place that could hide them from her ever-present eyes or ears. There would be no forest, no mountain, no ocean, cave, island, or stone they could hide under. Everything spoke to Nature.

The woman directed the two Guardians towards the opened hole, pointing down into its depths with her blade.

“Go,” she ordered.

Shooting one last worried glance at their fellow Guardians, Sandy and Jack plunged down into the abyssal tunnel. Nature waited above until Sandy’s glow vanished, and the two touched bottom. Jack’s staff lit up in a light blue glow. He swept it over the area – but all he could see was darkness. Sandy shivered and formed himself a blanket of sand, his teeth chattering. It was freezing cold in the cavern; both spirits could see their own breath even in the dark. 

“Well?” they heard Nature call down.

“Oh, uh, we don’t see anything! It’s too dark!” Jack called up. A scoff from above, before the sound of rustling earth was heard.

Nature landed with a billow of her emerald dress, the dark earth flaking off of her body like jumping insects. She looked around the dark cavern and frowned. She could barely see the other two a few feet from her, their own light obscured by the smothering shadows. 

“He is alive, and still down here…” she said quietly.

“Um, how do you-?”

“The shadows. They’re eating up your light…” Nature’s frown deepened, her eyes becoming cat-like slits. “They’re _hiding_ something.”

Hiding? Like they were hiding Pitch? Or was Pitch using them to hide himself? Jack looked to Sandy with these questions in mind, but the star could only shrug and fidget nervously under the looming shadows. Nature’s eyes surveyed the cavern, but even with her borrowed night-vision*, she still could not see even half the cavern. She blinked and her eyes returned to normal, locking onto the Sandman.

“Spread your sands over this cavern. Light it up,” she said curtly.

Sandy immediately protested with various images. It was too dangerous. The shadows could taint his sand, they could form more Nightmares and escape and-

“I don’t care you little worm!” Nature snapped, backing the star into a wall, “Now either light up this cave, or I cut you open and spill your sand myself!”

Jack gritted his teeth, his knuckles whitening around his staff. He wanted so badly to defend Sandy, but even he wasn’t stupid enough to challenge Nature. Before all of this, he would have openly said he could take her on. But now that he had met her, seen her…he could feel something, like a connection to her. But it wasn’t a mutual connection – it was the connection shared between a dog, a leash, and its owner. One small, wrong step, and he’d be tugged back. But one really bad move, and he could hang himself. And if he bit back, he could be beaten. He was under her thumb, damned by his own Nature-given element. 

The Sandman swallowed audibly when Nature presented an all too familiar dagger to him, and he nodded bleakly. Nature stood back a few paces as the Sandman rose up into the air. He spread his arms out, tendrils of Dreamsand flowing from his fingertips and into the walls. The gold veins spread throughout the dark stone and earth, steadily lighting up the cavern as the sands chased the shadows away into corners and crevices. The cavern was dimly lit with only meager shadows spotting a few areas between rocks and cracks. But no one paid attention to what was around the small cavern – rather they were focused on what was hanging in the back of it against the back wall.

The twisted, grotesque and narrow tower of Nightmare sand was like solid rock. Plastered to the back wall, it looked like a macabre cocoon that held an equally horrifying butterfly. Stray shadows clung to it weakly like sickly parasites, vague whispers being heard from its confines. 

“What…” Jack started, “Is that?”

Nature did not answer him. Eyes wide and mouth pulled into a tight frown, she rushed over to the cocoon. The Fearlings clinging to it hissed and spat at Mother Nature.

_**Leave this place!** _

_**He is OURS!** _

_**He does not exist! He is our vessel!** _

_**You will not take our toy!** _

_**He’s MINE!** _

“No he is NOT!” Nature drew her dagger, the weapon expanding into a long sword, before swinging it across the cocoon. 

The Fearlings shrieked as a black essence spilled from the cut, like organs from a gutted pig. She raised her sword again before striking once, twice, thrice, expanding the cuts and tears in the confined prison. 

The two Guardians watched in stunned, and disturbed, awe as the cocoon finally gave way. Its front split open with a loud _crack_ , exposing its occupant. Their eyes widened to impossible sizes, and Nature dropped her sword.

If ever there was a more frightening sight in the world, this was it. If ever there was something out there that made one want to run in terror but also want to embrace, this was it. If ever there was a moment in which one wanted to scream, plead, cry, and laugh, this was it.

And if ever there was a time and a place where Nature itself would weep for but one soul, this was it.

Pitch Black’s emaciated body was bound and gagged in a web of shadows within the broken cocoon. His arms were pinned to his sides, his palms up and facing them – small daggers of Nightmare sand were imbedded in his palms, pinning them to the back of the cocoon and dripping puddles of black blood onto the floor. Piano-wire thin tendrils of sand were wrapped around his limbs and neck, slicing into his skin and causing various bleeding lacerations to paint his paper-white body black. More of the wire-thin strands were wrapped around his legs, cutting into his leggings and flesh. His cloak was missing, and each and every bone was visible on his skeletal body. His hipbones looked sharp enough to cut through steel, his body not but flesh and ridges of bone.

The Boogeyman’s eyes and mouth were covered with what looked to be tattered shreds of his cloak, a thicker cord of Nightmare sand tied around his neck and yanked upwards like a hangman’s noose.

And in the center of his chest, a dagger of solid Nightmare sand. Infecting his very blood with its essence, the Nightmare King was now ruled and held prisoner in his own nightmare.

Nature screamed.

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes.
> 
> 1.) Hal's primary element is fire. But he is considered a tri-element. Meaning, he has three elements. Fire is his primary, shadows are secondary, and metal is tertiary. Though he uses his metal element more often than his shadow element, it's not his most powerful, but it is one of his trademarks, as it associates heavily with his fire element.
> 
> 2.) Pat's primary weapon is his fists - or if he is feeling particularly threatened or angry, he will use his custom made, gold plated brass knuckles. He normally does not pick fights, and will often walk away from anyone trying to instigate him. But if he is in the vicinity, and you're harassing a younger and weaker spirit, god help you. He is an expert-ranked boxer and knows various fighting styles. 
> 
> 3.) Though the movie highlights Sandy's whips as his primary weapons, I find it a big hard to imagine infusing shaped magic sand with the key to a seal. For me, the item needs to be a physical, tangible object that can retain a spell. The books reference that Sandy live son a constantly moving sandy island in the ocean, so it was fitting to have his part of the key infused into a seashell. (If I hear any Pirates of the Caribbean references, I'm going to lose my shit.) 
> 
> 4.) In my canon, Nature can borrow traits from animals and plants. In this instance, she borrowed the keen vision of a big cat to try and see in the dark.
> 
> ~S~


	5. Break

Whatever had happened down within the broken bowels of Pitch’s lair was nothing but a blur to the three that went down there. Jack could scarcely remember being shouted at by Nature to _get him down!_ And this was after she was done screaming into nothingness like a madwoman. It was like he had been on autopilot, or outside his own body…

It was all a blur; he felt like he was watching a badly made movie through his own eyes. Watching, as his own hands had fumbled and shook, slick with black blood as his fingers had tried to pry out the dagger buried in a bony sternum. Sandy had fared a little better, but he had at the very least managed to simply dispel the black sand in the Nightmare King’s hands with his own Dreamsand. 

He could vaguely recall Nature screaming at him to hurry, to get him down, _right now_. He couldn’t recall the frozen tears streaking his face, nor the shaking of his body as his hands only continued to slip and fumble. In the end his frustration won out, and he froze the dagger into a blunter, longer shard, before yanking it out with an anguished keen.

The Boogeyman fell like a broken doll to the floor in a silent heap. Sandy went to check him over, but was aggressively shoved aside by Mother Nature with an animalistic hiss. 

Jack could only watch, oblivious to his hyperventilating, as Nature gently, tenderly, lifted the Boogeyman’s torso up into her arms and cradled him against her chest. Her hands shook, and her touch was hesitant and frightened – like she was handling a brittle glass bird. 

Or a broken glass butterfly…

She reached up to remove the gag and blindfold. But she relented, her body lurching with a barely concealed keen. She hugged the Boogeyman’s frail body close yet loosely to her bosom, her head dropping against his overly-prominent collarbone as she had shaken with repressed grief. 

The silence of the cavern was only broken by Jack’s ragged breathing, Nature’s hissing keens, and the steady _drip_ of Pitch’s blood on the floor. Still shaking, Jack looked down at his hands, but only came face to face with what he had callously pulled out – _put in_ – the Boogeyman’s chest. 

The ice had partly melted, but it was still soaked in the ink black blood that once flooded the shade’s body. And yet, it was nothing but dirtied fluid pouring from gaping wounds and leaking from a gagged mouth. The crystalline dagger held in his hands dripped with it. It flowed and trickled over his shaking white hands – as if he himself had committed a murder…

“You did this…”

The strained, biting hiss drew Sandy and Jack’s attention back to Nature. The woman was still clutching delicately at Pitch like he was some precious porcelain doll. Her eyes were constricted into furious orbs, and her white teeth were bared in a raged snarl.

“You did this to him…” she rasped, “You all put him down here…you put that knife in his chest…”

Jack’s eyes were wide in horror as he stared at the nature spirit, before they averted back down to the knife in his hand. It seemed to fit perfectly in his palm, as if it were made for him to hold. Made for him to wield. Made for him to use.

“You all crucified and _murdered_ him!”

After this, Jack’s memories blanked out completely.

****

**

~s~S~s~

**

****

The other Guardians did not know what to expect when – and if – Nature and their two colleagues reemerged from the hole. But if they did expect anything, it wasn’t to see Mother Nature carrying the all too familiar, yet skeletal, body of what was left of the Boogeyman in her arms. 

Tooth’s hands flew to her mouth and her wings gave out. She was barely caught by a wide eyed and gaping Bunny, and North’s once defensive posture dropped into one of utter astonishment and disbelief. 

The Boogeyman was wasted away to nearly nothing now. He looked so small, so fragile and vulnerable in the woman’s arms – he was the complete opposite of what he once was. He was so weak and wasted; it was no wonder how a petite woman like Nature was able to carry him like a distressed damsel. 

Nature knelt to the ground and gingerly placed Pitch onto the earth. Hesitantly, Nature worked up the courage to try and remove the gag. The blood soaked cloth was removed and tossed aside like rubbish, her delicate fingers gently tracing over the cuts inflicted to the corners of Pitch’s still mouth. The faintest of warm breath ghosted over her fingertips from the Boogeyman’s aquiline nose – he was still alive.

Nature did not even stop North from kneeling down beside Pitch and tearing off a piece of his coat. He pressed the thick fabric to the gaping wound in Pitch’s chest, before tearing thinner strips off to wrap around brittle palms. His own beefy hands were shaking, and his face was pale with wide-eyed shock. As his hands began to shake and fumble with the wound in Pitch’s chest, Nature snatched away the cloth and slapped his hands away from the frail man.

“Back off…!” she hissed. North wisely held his hands up and slowly shuffled back towards Tooth and Bunny. The Tooth Fairy spoke up meekly after a small pause.

“Mo…Mother Nature, is he-?”

“Quiet…” Nature rasped in a seething hiss. Tooth bit her lip and wrung her hands, unable to take her eyes off the pathetic form of the Nightmare King and what he had become. 

Nature’s hands moved from the wound in his chest, to the blindfold confining his eyes. She hesitated, then pulled her hands away. Something was telling her to leave it, to keep his eyes covered and to let him be for now. It infuriated her to no end, but she was not about to deny her natural instincts, all of which had yet to steer her wrong. Instead, she gathered Pitch in her arms again. And ignoring the blood staining her skirt and bodice, her eyes locked onto North.

“Take out a globe,” she ordered.

North’s bloodied hands reached into his inner pocket, and shakily brought out an unused snow globe. The glass stained and streaked itself with the blood caked to his fingers.

“Where…where to?” he inquired shakily. 

Nature paused for a moment to pick the Boogeyman back up in her arms. She harshly dismissed Bunny’s offer to carry him like an overly protective mother bear, before she spoke.

“To Libra’s Court.”

****

**

~s~S~s~

**

****

It was like a palace of marble and white granite, vast and cold. Statues of eagles and lions guarded every visible doorway, the walls high and the windows even higher. The frigid air was both refreshing yet eerie, chilling them to the bone; not even Jack was immune to its cold grip. The tall columns loomed over them like stony giants, dizzying and overpowering. 

Libra’s Court was a sight; a foreboding and respected place of silence and judgment. 

And the moment they stepped through the portal and into the white marble palace, they were immediately greeted by an all too eerily familiar time spirit.

“Ah, you made it,” Time greeted in a friendly manner, “I was starting to think you wouldn’t show up.”

“I am not in the mood, Time,” Nature hissed, her agitation increasing at the sight of the serene man, “Where is Libra? A Trial must be held to-”

“Already taken care of,” Time interrupted, “I took the liberty of having everyone needed gathered. All that is missing is the defendants.”

Nature’s teeth audibly gritted together, though whether from anger or anxiety was unknown. But her gaze at the calm man spoke volumes; it displayed nothing but murderous intent. She opened her mouth to say something, but it swiftly closed as they were approached by a pair of Libra’s guards.

A man and a woman dressed in teal tunics and armor approached the group in a steady march. Jack was stunned into a stupor to see that the two had not the heads of humans, but eagles* – complete with feathers and beaks, and spiked helmets on their heads. The two strange guards bowed deeply to Nature before the female spoke in a strange, guttural voice.

“Judge Libra shall see you now,” she said, her beak barely moving, “You have a half hour to prepare yourselves for the court.”

“We shall take care of the defendants,” the male added, “And see to sir Black’s injuries.”

“Defendants…?” Jack muttered, confused, “What’s going on? We should be at the pole to help Pitch and-”

Time chuckled, “Really, master Frost? You think it’s that easy? No, no, child, you cannot leave, nor will you take master Black with you.”

North’s hands tightened into shaky fists. “We are to be prosecuted…” It was not a question.

“Indeed,” Time confirmed, “By Judge Libra herself, and before the High Court, and the higher spirits of the mortal world.”

“What…?” Jack rasped. His brain was unable to catch up to all of this new information, and it visibly showed. Time sighed and shook his head.

“Honestly, I knew you Guardians were rather untoward, but to not give your newest member the rundown of our own society? Shame.” Time shook his head again and looked to the eagle-man.

“His injuries are not dire, but they do need tending,” he said, “Please inform Libra that I am going to be somewhat late. I must impose on her library briefly.” And with that, he gave one last calm smile and a nod to Nature before he wandered off, the click of his heels vanishing down the long, marble hallway.

Mother Nature watched him vanish down the hallway with an unreadable expression, her obsidian eyes practically spitting fire at his back. Sighing shakily through her nose, she looked to the female guard.

“Please, as he says, Pitch needs help,” she said softly. The guard nodded.

“Yes, m’lady.” The eagle-woman held her muscular arms out, and Nature carefully, hesitantly, placed the frail Boogeyman in her arms.

The guard gave one last nod before a pair of feathered wings sprouted from her back, and she flew off down the corridor and into an upper level just at the end of the hall. Nature’s arms fell to her sides into tight, blood-covered fists as she watched the Boogeyman be swept off to the infirmary. But her thoughts seemed to be elsewhere, and her eyes narrowed.

“Take these heathens to where they are needed,” she said, “I must speak with Time.”

Without another word, she stormed off at a speedy walk towards where her colleague had wandered, leaving the Guardians with a single guard. The eagle-man made a low, bird-like crooning sound and huffed through his beak and nose.

“As the defendants, I have the privilege of reading you your rights,” he started formerly, “Under Judge Libra’s orders, you are hereby held under contempt. You are not to leave The Court; should you leave The Court, Judge Libra shall add your defiance onto your accusations. Your trial starts in a half hour, until then you will be kept in our holding cells and questioned on the matter of…”

The rest of the eagle-man’s words were tuned out from Jack’s steadily deafening ears. All of what had transpired in the last twenty-four hours seemed to come crashing into him under the intense, iron gaze of the guard. This was no dream, this was real. He was not just going to court, he and the Guardians were going to The Court.

Blackness enveloped his vision, and he knew nothing of the world anymore.

****

**

~s~S~s~

**

****

The doors to the vast library were thrown open with a rage-filled flourish, admitting one very angered nature spirit. Time barely gave her so much as a glance from the book perched on his lap, his sightless gaze neutral. 

“You…!” Nature stormed forward and towards the calmly reclining time spirit, ripping the book he had been reading from his hands, “You _knew!_ ”

“Pray tell, what did I know?” Time asked innocently.

Nature’s hand clamped down onto the other’s throat, thorns and toxic plant spikes growing from her fingertips and piercing his skin. The poison was useless against someone like Time, and simply knowing that the other was in some kind of miniscule pain did not soothe the woman as much as she had thought it would.

“You knew this was going to happen…” she hissed, “You _knew_ he was down there, you _knew_ he was going to be found like this, _you knew_ those monsters would damn him to his own hell!”

Her shrieking was punctuated by the thorns and vines creeping out from under her dress, as well as the toxic insects scurrying down her arms and onto Time’s lithe body. But no sting or prick was ever administrated to his unusually calm person. He simply gazed up at her with closed eyes and a neutral expression. 

A tiny grin suddenly contorted his lips, one leg crossing over the other as he folded his hands neatly on his lap.

“And how would I know?” he inquired, “I may be able to see all that ever was, is, and shall be, but I do not see _all_.”

“You see that which is _important_ and will affect all life itself on _my_ -”

“ _Our_ Earth, dear,” Time chastised gently, “And it is not our job to deal in personal quarrels.”

“But it is _our_ job, _your_ job, to warn me and other higher spirits of catastrophe!” Nature yelled, tightening her pulsing hand around his neck, “Our planet is being ravaged by war and famine, disease and unnatural warfare!”

“Indeed it is, isn’t it?” Time commented, before he suddenly smirked in a none too friendly way, “But that isn’t why you are angry. It is not why you are here, now is it?”

Nature’s head veered back, as if she had just avoided a punch to the face. Her eyes widened briefly before they contorted back into an ugly and hateful scowl. 

“I am here because the Guardians have caused my planet to-”

“You are here because of Pitch Black…” Time suddenly stood, and with little to no effort, firmly pulled Nature’s hand off his throat. He grinned down his nose at her and nonchalantly swatted a few bugs off his tunic.

“You are here because you are angry,” he started, “And you are angry not because of what is happening to the planet – you created Earth to be a resilient thing, and you are more than capable of wiping out the ‘pests’ on her surface…”

Nature wanted to stop herself from being backed into a literal corner. The taller male’s heels clicked steadily with each step he took, her own throat closing up on words she wanted to scream at the man. But she could not; Time’s very force overpowered her, muted her voice and paralyzed her body. 

“Yes, you are weakened, but you are not powerless,” he said, “Humans are so amusingly egotistical, thinking that _they_ are the only ones who can ‘heal’ the Earth, the only ones who can keep it healthy and safe, despite what they do to it…”

Nature’s back hit a marble column between two bookcases, the rest of her following until even her heels were plastered to its base. Time loomed over her, his hands politely held behind his back. And yet, this was a posture everyone should be afraid of. Time was not a naturally aggressive or physical man; but he was _dangerous_. And one should be most afraid of him when he was physically, yet passively, forcing someone into a corner. Literal or otherwise, Time was a very, _very_ dangerous man right now – even to Nature herself.

“You forget yourself, Mother Nature…” he said. Nature could taste his cold, metallic breath on her tongue, could smell his mechanical and oily scent in her nose. He was so close, she could actually count the long dark lashes of his closed eyes, could make out each unsullied pore in his face, could actually see the metal shavings caught in his platinum hair. 

“We are not _heroes_ ,” he started firmly yet gently, as if he were scolding a child, “We are that which keeps life as we know from ending. We are not gods though. We are silent, unseen, _unobtrusive_ …”

“And yet, you personally went out of your way to ‘rescue’ Pitch Black,” he said with a cocked head.

Nature’s hands balled into tight fists, but she was unable to strike out at the other. Because deep down, she knew he was right, she knew it was true, and she knew she was defying her very nature due to her own anger.

Time chuckled to himself. “This is not a matter of the Earth being ravaged by idiotic humans. No, this is _personal_ to you, isn’t it?”

She wanted to tune him out. Wanted to tightly shut his mouth and render him mute – but she couldn’t. Nature tried to focus instead on the ticking clock buried in his breast, to try and mentally amplify that steady _‘tick-tock’_ resonating from his cold, metal heart. Anything else would be better than listening to him. Anything would be better than being dissected alive by his unseen eyes. Anything would have been better than having him forcibly rip out her once steel-plated emotions and showing them to her. 

“Remember my dear…” he leaned in closer until their noses were nearly touching, “Time tells no lies. Time only shows that which has, is, or will happen, with no sense of bias or emotion. Nature is just as such, a cruel yet nurturing thing. And I have been seeing you spinelessly bending to your own emotions’ will.”

“You, the very embodiment of _nature_ , the wildest, most untamable force of existence. And yet here you are, reverted to a raging child.”

A low chuckle, Time lifting a hand to her chin to make her look up at him.

“How amusingly _human_ of you…”

Nature flinched violently when the hand on her chin suddenly shot out alongside her head. Dust and tiny chunks of marble crumbled from the large crack under Time’s palm, planted over the marble of the column she was pinned to. He slowly pulled his hand back in a fist, before opening it to reveal one of her insects – a butterfly.

“That you would revert back to a lost and hurt little girl, because _daddy_ is hurt…” he said, “And the best part is, you knew that he _has_ been hurting for many, many years. And you chose now to act, because it was convenient and would preserve your pride.”

It was like a taut string inside of her had finally snapped. A heavy weight dropped into her gut, and suddenly everything was just _painful_. It was too much, there was too much of this thing inside her body, and it needed to be let _out_.

Nature trembled as a once forgotten heat burst behind her eyes. Her brain was not but a blank and useless mass in her head now. Whether she was aware of her actions or not, she let her heavy head drop onto Time’s shoulder. Her hands reached up and clutched violently at the front of his tunic, her nails ripping into the soft material as her nose was assaulted by the scent of metal and a damp muskiness. Time made no move to stop or encourage her; rather he stood by calmly as her trembling body pressed into his, the crown of her dark hair brushing against his chin.

It was as if Time himself was physically sucking her very age away. And as he overturned his palm, and let the broken and crushed butterfly fall to the floor like a piece of lint, she felt like a little girl again.

And she wept.

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes. 
> 
> 1.) As Libra's character and traits were inspired by the Supreme Court of the United States (SCOTUS) located in Washington D.C. Their seal unsurprisingly features an eagle, and so this translated over into Libra's officers as human bodies with eagle heads (wings are exclusive to the females). The male officers exhibit inhuman strength, while the females bear the capability of flight.
> 
> ~S~


	6. The Court

“…ack…-ack…JACK!”

Jack jumped from his horizontal position on the bench. Muttering in surprise, and with not a bit too much irritation from being woken up, Jack rubbed his eyes and looked at the source of his unplanned wake up call.

“Tooth, what is it…?” he asked blearily.

“Jack, it’s almost time for our trial…” Tooth informed bleakly.

_‘Trial…?’_ Jack finally blinked the sleep out of his eyes and seemed to finally take notice of just where they all were.

The four walls around them were made of some kind of off-white marble, decked with matching slabs of stone used as benches and narrow chairs. A small barred window was carved into the back wall, and across from it was an intricate array of bars and a heavy lock. Jack saw the others on either a slab of marble, or standing around – they were in a prison. While it didn’t look like a typical concrete and iron prison humans used, it was obviously meant to hold prisoners within its thick walls and steel. 

“Where…?” Jack got up, automatically reaching for his staff – his hand gripped thin air, and he looked down in stunned fright.

“They took our weapons, mate,” Bunny grunted from his standing point in a corner, “Regulations, rules, and all that shit…”

Trying to ignore the distressing feeling of not having his staff, Jack shuffled over to the window. He got up onto the stone ledge and peeked out over it as far as he could with the bars in the way. All he could see was a sea of clouds, and only a scant few peaks in the distance. Were they on a mountain range? 

“It…” he started, “It wasn’t a dream…was it?”

“I am afraid not, Jack,” North said grimly, “We are going to trial in a few minutes, before Judge Libra herself.”

“The Spirit of Justice and Order?” Jack asked. He had heard stories of Libra, from spirits who had attended her court as a peer council and jury. She was harsh, firm, almost cruel – but she was fair and orderly. It was rare for spirits to go to court, but when they did, they were dealt punishment for whatever crime it was they committed, however small it may be.*

But this, what they all did, and the reactions of the other spirits – this was something _huge_. What they did to Pitch Black was not something that was going to be resolved with a few nights in a cell. And if he remembered right, Time was there to greet them, and he himself had coordinated the trial – which meant he was going to be a part of it. 

“Wh-when is the trial? What’s going to happen? Do we get a lawyer or something?” Jack asked frantically.

“Jack, calm down,” Tooth soothed, grabbing his shoulders and gently forcing him onto a bench, “That isn’t how our system works.”

“Then how do we…?”

“Our system is much simpler, more organized, than a human law and order system,” North started to explain, “Depending on the case, a defendant would be given a defender, the human equivalent of a lawyer. This is the most common trial system used in our world, where defendant and victim argue and face off with evidence and their own sides of event – much like human trial.”

North sighed heavily. “But really, final judgment is up to Libra herself. Her abilities within her court make it so she can see through lies, and force the truth out of others. Corruption is not welcome in her court, and she herself is immune to such things.” 

“Basically, if a defendant looks guilty, sounds guilty, and evidence says he’s guilty, he’s guilty,” Bunny grunted, “There are no loopholes – it’s all up to Libra. Rights are withheld till everything is laid out on the table, so to speak.”

“Some of her trials are said to last for days,” Tooth added, “And depending on the crime determines what kind of trial we will have. For something like this…it’s going to be intense.”

Jack swallowed dryly around a lump in his throat. The system seemed short and incomplete, but it also seemed swift and orderly. It was far simpler and more flexible than an easily corrupt or loophole-infested human system. But this left him having to ask…

“What kind of trial are we being held in?” Jack asked shakily.

North shook his head. “I do not know. I highly doubt it will be quick. Pitch is unable to testify after all.”

“Worse yet, Nature and Time are gonna be there and participate…” Bunny added darkly, “Nature’s been in court a few times to bring some idiot spirits trying to take over her planet to justice, but Time has never, ever, set foot in The Court.”

So this would be the first time in history that Father Time himself would be participating in a trial…That didn’t make Jack feel any better about this.

“I can hear them upstairs,” Bunny suddenly said, “They’re saying Time’s gonna be playing a big part in the trial, and present evidence.”

“How will he present evidence? He wasn’t there…” Jack said. 

“He didn’t have to be there…” Bunny grunted, “He’s the Spirit of Time. He sees all that was, is, or will be. He can just show the court what Pitch went through when he was sealed, and he doesn’t even have to do that. After all, Time tells no lies…”

Jack’s heart was jumping into his throat, but he had no time to panic. The low click of armored shoes filled the stony hallway of cells, catching their attention and turning it to the door of their cell. Two male guards – both bearing the heads of eagles – stopped before the cell. One was carrying a wooden box, and the other a ring of keys.

“It is time for your trial, Guardians,” the key holder said, “We are to escort you to The Court, and you are to be cuffed during the trial.”

“What? But why? What could we do that would-”

“Safety precautions. The jury and onlookers do not feel safe with you all, and Judge Libra ordered you be restrained.” The box-holding guard said evenly. 

“What? Why would our companions not feel safe around-”

“Please step up one at a time to receive your cuffs.” The second guard selected a key and unlocked the door, the other opening the box which no doubt contained their supposed restraints.

“If you fail to comply, we have been given permission to use force,” the second added, “Please, step forward.”

“Listen here you bloody chickens, we don’t have to-” Bunny grunted as the second guard suddenly pulled out a marble nightstick and struck the Pooka straight in the gut. Bunny curled over himself as he was stunned into a pained stupor.

“Bunny…!” Tooth looked like she was about to retaliate, but a hand on her shoulder from Sandy stopped her.

The guard put his nightstick back into his belt, and folded his hands behind his back. All professional business.

“Please, step forward. This is your final warning,” he said.

Everyone gave each other uncertain looks, but it was obvious they would have to comply. North went first and held his wrists out to the guard. The eagle-headed man clamped down strange, chainless cuffs around his wrists, before guiding North to stand in front of the second guard. Next came Tooth, then Sandy, then Jack, and then Bunny, who took a moment to regain himself and sneer at the guards as he was cuffed. 

After checking the cuffs were secure, the guards led the Guardians down the aisle of cells and out into another hallway.

The cuffs seemed to be either magnetized or held some sort of strange magic; the Guardians could not move away from one another for a certain distance. And if they wandered too far from one another, the cuffs would not let them go any further, as if held back by an invisible chain – as proven when Tooth started to hover a little too high and she pitched forward from the restraining force. She had to resort to walking after that so as not to break her flight patterns and hurt herself.

A couple turns later, and the Guardians reached a pair of towering doors; no doubt leading into the courtroom they were to be tried in. The guards each reached for one of the great, eagle-headed knockers, and pulled the doors open.

The Guardians’ eyes widened.

The room was massive. It was a round, towering room of round bleachers lining the oval shaped room. The room was absolutely _filled_ with other spirits – fae, wights, wraiths, and other such souls were seated within the stands, all of them having gone silent to stare down harshly and accusingly at the Guardians. The very back of it was dominated by what had to be a seven-foot and intricately carved column of white and teal marble, the top of it hosting Judge Libra herself. But on either side of Libra’s desk, were slightly shorter columns hosting Mother Nature and Father Time. In front of their seats were smaller, shorter rows of bleachers that held higher spirits, a few of which Jack recognized.

Hal was seated closest to Nature’s own seat, his gaze impassive and looking at some point of the wall above them. Next to him were the seasonal fairy siblings – the sisters, Spring and Summer, and the brothers, Fall and Winter. The spirit at the end of the bleacher was not one Jack recognized – the androgynous spirit had many weeds tangled in (his? Her) long wavy hair, the body dripping wet and soaking into a seaweed-woven tunic-dress. Next was a spirit Jack also did not recognize. She appeared to be a rather beautiful-looking Asian woman dressed in a bright red kimono, her long black hair tied up in a bun and held together with red chopsticks. A veil of spiderweb-themed silk dangled in pleated strips in her hair, and Jack could vaguely see a few spiders crawling along her body. And next to her was a rather grotesque-looking spirit – a Skin-walker if he ever did see one. Jack couldn’t decipher the gender of the spirit, as the head was mostly covered by a deer skull, and the body clad in raggedly sewn animal skins and moss.

Jack didn’t have the time to observe any more of the assembled spirits, as the guards ushered them to a large round stand no doubt for them to make their case on. It was right in front of Libra and the higher spirits’ seats and scrutinizing gazes.

Once they were seated, Libra raised a hand to silence the quiet murmuring of the gathered onlookers and court participants. The Guards left the Guardians’ side and approached Libra’s stand.

“Judge Libra Justine, the defendants are ready for their trial,” they both droned out, before taking position in front of the stand holding the higher up spirits. Libra stood up from her seat and regarded the Guardians.

“Guardians Nicolas St. North, E. Aster Bunnymund, Toothiana, Sanderson Mansnoozie, and Jack Frost, you have all been brought here on numerous accusations brought on by numerous individuals here in this very court. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty!” Bunny barked out before anyone else could say anything.

Almost immediately, outrageous cries broke out among the onlookers. Many stood up and yelled, while others were bold enough to throw things and shout out threats and suggestions on punishment.

“Strip them of their power!”

“Lock them up like animals!”

“Throw them to the Nightmares!”

“End them!”

“Torture them!”

“Exile them!”

Libra glowered under her teal blindfold and stood up straighter, raising a hand.

“ **ORDER!** ”

And just like before, all sound was stolen from every voice in the room, throats closing up around hissing breaths and angered protests. Everyone who had stood up slowly sat back down with stunned and shaken expressions. Once all was silent, Libra regarded the Guardians once more.

“Is this your final plea?” she asked curtly.

“Ye-”

“No!” North thankfully broke in before Bunny could get them into even deeper water, “Judge Libra, we understand our actions have caused grief, and we take responsibility for our actions. But perhaps we are going a bit far in this prosecution and can settle this outside of The Court.”

More spirits made to protest – loudly – before Libra raised a hand again, and managed to silence them without speaking in her commanding voice. 

“If I may, Judge Libra?” Mother Nature inquired. Libra nodded curtly to the nature herald, and the woman stood up from her seat, hands planted firmly on her own desk.

“You all obviously have _no idea_ just how drastic this is,” she said impassively, “Or perhaps you are in denial. Do you all not know just how far things have gone since fear has been denied to the humans of this world?”

“Th-that’s what we’re trying to understand!” Tooth answered, “We have not seen anything wrong happening in the world.”

“And why do you think that is?” Time inquired, “Is it maybe because, while you have gone out in the field again for a while, you stopped only twenty-three years ago?”

The fairy woman recoiled as if stung, but said no more after that. Nature turned her attention back to the other Guardians.

“And what of the rest of you? Two of you only venture out of your homes once a year, one only at night and when people are asleep, and one avoids any place with even a hint of heartache at all costs,” she said.

Jack internally cringed at the accusation, but he knew it was true. He wasn’t proud that he couldn’t stand personally going to places where he had seen pain or anguish. He sent snow clouds to those places to help with his job, but even now he had been visiting fewer and fewer places as unfortunate events increased. It had gotten to the point where he had confined himself to the North Pole most of the year…

“Please, Judge, we had nothing but the best intentions in mind when we sealed Pitch away!” Tooth argued. 

“Yes, Manny thought it was best idea, and he asked of us to-”

“The moon again?” Cupid, up in a higher stand, sneered, “Are you all really this easy to order around? Have you no spines? No HEARTS?”

“Oi, we got plenty of spine!” Bunny snapped, “Manny knew what he was doing, and you all better show some respect for him!”

“And why should we?” a river spirit inquired in a bored tone, “Your moon did not create us, nor has he ever spoken with us.”

“Yeah, we’re not his babysitters like you all are,” another added.

“Yer moon did not earn our respect,” Patrick broke in from the other side of the bleachers, “Not all of us were created by ‘im, it’s only you five who were put under ‘is thumb.”

“What?” Jack breathed, confused, “What do you mean we’re the only ones? I thought the Man in the Moon made all of us.”

Shocked and disgusted murmurs broke out among the court. Some spirits scoffed at his naivety, while others looked at him with pity. Hal spoke up from his seat near Nature.

“Jack, none of us, except you and the Guardians, were made immortal by the moon. All of us here were either given our immortality by Nature and Time, or by a spirit before us,” he said carefully, “He has never spoken to us, because we do not want to listen to him. He doesn’t even like us darker spirits.”

“But…but then how…?”

“You truly are naive," Mother Natured sighed, shaking her head, "I actually pity you for what the moon did – choosing a child of isolation as a Guardian, and then leaving you this clueless over the years.”

“Manny is good man!” North argued, pounding a fist onto the stand, “He is wise and caring of us and the children of this world!”

“But he does not take into consideration of who and what really makes this world go round,” Time commented, leaning his hand onto a fist. He suddenly grinned. “The Tsar is a childish fool, and you all blindly follow him. I cannot say I am surprised. I am, however, just slightly disgusted that you all took this approach, despite knowing of Black’s past."

“His past…?” Jack muttered under his breath. Time quirked a brow at Jack, but did not say anything.

“But this isn’t the point!” Bunny broke in, “The point is he nearly wiped us out! Yeah, we probably wouldn’t have died, but it’s not like we knew-”

“Careful, Bunnymund,” Libra suddenly broke in, “You are in my court now, and I will know if you are lying.”

Bunny gritted his teeth together and clenched his fists, but made no further argument. Libra looked to Time.

“Sir Time, if I may have your input? Your foresight in the matter can help this trial along and make it as brief as possible,” she said.

“Hm, brief indeed,” Time sighed, almost looking bored, “I cannot say much due to my own code of conduct, but I will say this. Pitch Black was completely ravaged by his Nightmares. Whatever is left inside of him is not but ash and scraps. His torture went beyond mere beatings and nightmares…”

Nature’s fingers clawed into the granite of her desk, but she made no sound or change in expression. The Sandman caught everyone’s attention and showed a few images and hand gestures. North nodded.

“Yes, we did not know Pitch’s powers and influence was so ingrained into the world,” he translated, “Had we had known…”

“What would you have done?” the kimono clad woman inquired, “My threads tell me his fate would have been the same. You all would have still locked him away because of your own fears.” 

“Please, we had to protect the children…!” Tooth fidgeted.

Nature scowled at the fairy woman while other spirits shook their heads at the Guardians. 

“This is not just about mere children anymore, Guardians,” Nature hissed, “This is about everyone, including the spirits of this world.” 

The Guardians held no argument now – except Bunny, who they were restraining into not talking. Once the silence reached a peak, Libra looked to Nature and Time.

“We shall disregard a personal plead, and move onto the evidence and damages,” she said. Nature nodded over to the spirits in the bleachers below her and Time. They all briefly whispered amongst each other before they decided for the spider woman to go first. She stood from her seat and faced the court.

“As many of you may know, I am Maaka Asaito, the Spirit of Fate and Destiny*…” 

The woman, revealed to be a Jorōgumo* of Japanese lore, was a spirit who wove and threaded the destinies of humans. Her red spider threads had once dictated a striving and prosperity few years before the calamity had started. But recently, her threads started to snap and break, fates and destinies collapsing whether due to defiance of their fate, or death. Her spiders were also starting to eat the threads, causing them to later die. Each human had a spider, and that spider shared a thread with another – the bond of The Red Thread of Destiny, and one of Cupid’s own assets. But even these were starting to snap, leaving a hole in the fabrics of human hearts.

Destinies were being destroyed, and the webs of fate were collapsing due to either death, or their fates taking an ill turn in armies, loss, or other unfortunate events.

Next came the seasonal fairies*. They spoke of how their seasons were being tainted, how cold areas were becoming hot, and hot areas were becoming cold. Spring could no longer paint her flowers, or fully wake the hibernating animals. Summer’s domains were withering and becoming chilled, sometimes giving way to a too early autumn, and her rains were becoming acidic. Fall could hardly keep up with the sudden shifts, his winds suddenly polluted and weak, and his leaves were too few to change color. Winter complained of picking up Jack’s slack and being unable to fully wield his own element. Storms were now running wild, and blizzards were taking over what were supposed to be light snowfalls. Lives were being lost in his uncontrollable cold, and animals were not going into hibernation soon enough.

The water fae was next. Her name was Ondine, an ambassador for the sea and fresh water fae that could not leave their realms, or were too weak to leave the water. Lakes and rivers were not the only things being polluted and drained – the ocean itself was becoming a warzone. Oil spills were practically everyday occurrences now, and water-fights were breaking out among warring vessels. Fish and other sea life were being plundered like useless treasure, nations fighting over who had the most food, and who would get the most from the sea. Other greedy faculties were even poaching, and the once forgotten act of whaling had suddenly started back up. Humpback whales and Orcas were suddenly on the ‘highly endangered’ list. Humans were also being lost at sea – especially fearless children looking for adventure, much to the Guardians’ shock. 

Second to last was the Skin-walker. He called himself Roadkill*, and he was the Northern Spirit of Animals. His brothers and sisters – all scattered to the east, west, and south – were also experiencing dilemmas with the animals they protected. Humans were overhunting – many species were now already extinct! Predators such as wolves were being ravaged and terminated like vermin, while more exotic animals were being poached for nothing but their skins or horns. His African sister had reported to him that the big cat population was practically nonexistent, and lower, high-breeding animal populations were exploding; spreading sickness and destroying plant life. Everything in the animal kingdom was falling apart at the seams. 

And if this wasn’t bad enough, other animals were being captured and experimented on to improve biological warfare. Animals – both big and small – were suffering and mutating, many of them being bred in faculties for their mutated genes for human benefit. Humans were in danger of the animals too – they at least retained natural, instinctual fear, and have sensed the shift in power. Animals were attacking fearless humans – especially children – who got too close to them. Diseases like Rabies and other animal-spread sickness were becoming all too common now, leading to war scientists to use them for biological weapons, in turn only increasing the death toll. But this was only if you were lucky. You were considered unfortunate if you were eaten or mauled by an animal.

Finally, Hal took the stand. The Guardians were suddenly on edge, frightened, _terrified_ of what the Pumpkin King, and Monarch of Monsters, had to say. 

However, when he was called to give his testimony, he shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Judge, but I would like to withdraw my testimony,” he said. Nature frowned at him.

“Hal, this is important,” she implored, “These five must know just how much damage is being done right now, and especially with the Gate.”

“The hell does his talkin’ to ghosts and monsters have to do with any of this crap?” Bunny suddenly snarled.

“Bunnymund!” North hissed.

“No! No, this whole thing? This is absolute _bullshit!_ ” Bunny barked as he stood up from his seat.

“Bunnymund, you are out of order,” Libra snapped.

“I don’t care! This whole thing could be a ploy from Pitch! When has a lack of fear ever done anything like this? Warfare? Experimentation? Murder? Bloody world war?! He’s causing this!”

“Bunnymund, either sit down and calm yourself, or I am holding you in contempt and having you thrown back in your cell!” Libra threatened.

“Bunny, just stop and listen to her…!” Tooth hissed, trying to tug her colleague back down. He shrugged her off and glared up at Nature.

“He’s playing you, sheila. He’s probably in the infirmary right now playing it up!” he snapped to the court, “Are we honestly going to take the side of that bloke? Defend the one real monster in this world? He’s the Nightmare King! He’s nothing _but_ a monster!”

“He was not just a Nightmare King!”

All eyes turned to the once tired and silent Homunculus. Hal stood in his stand, oversized, clawed gloves gripping the marble edge tightly in his burning grasp. He stared down at Bunnymund with his pained, candy-corn eyes.

“He was _OUR_ king…” he rasped brokenly, “If it wasn’t for him, we, the dark spirits, we would have never been born. From his fear, his darkness, we were born from it. Without him, we wouldn’t exist!”

The Homunculus gestured to the scrutinizing darker souls gathered in one corner of the room, their dark eyes staring down Bunny. Hal panted out a cloud of smoke as he snarled at Bunny.

“We may be cruel sometimes, Bunnymund, but we are fair, and we are the teachers humans need to survive!” Hal snapped, “Without fear, there will be chaos. You’re just too blinded by arrogance and your ego to see or accept it!”

“Yeah? You’re one to talk! It’s no wonder you’d take that sod’s side,” Bunny sneered nastily at the monarch, “You’re nothing but his and Samhain’s whore, after all.”

The gasp of the stunned crowd was all but white noise to Hal at that point. Smoke literally rose from his body in thick plumes, his cat-like pupils blowing into wide black holes. Without thought, his twin harvesting sickles were in his hands before he could even think. Stepping up onto the ledge of the bleacher, Hal’s now brimstone and black eyes leered down at Bunny.

“If I am a whore, then you are the damned Moon’s DOG!” his body lit aflame* as he leaped for the Pooka, an instant commotion breaking out.

“Order in the Court!” Libra shrieked. 

“Oi Hal! Get offa ‘im!” Patrick jumped his own seat and rushed for the now blazing Homunculus.

Bunny jumped back in time to watch Hal bury his sickles into the marble floor of where he once stood, his fiery feet singeing the floor. Bunny panted as he watched the scrawny spirit yank the metal blades out of the stone floor with almost no effort, locking his blackened eyes onto the Pooka.

“Hypocrite animal…!” he rasped.

“You’re out of your bloody mind!” Bunny snapped.

Hal only growled like a rabid beast and charged at the Pooka. Bunny again managed to get out of the way of the burning blades, but found his arms unable to break out of the invisible restraints keeping him within five feet of the other Guardians. The fiery spirit was deaf to Libra’s pounding gavel, and her booming commands for order*. 

“Hal! Stop this lad! This ain’t like ye!” Patrick tried to calm the Homunculus, but was unable to touch him while he was literally on fire.

“Back OFF!” Hal snapped at the Leprechaun. He turned back to Bunny and, finding him unable to leave the immediate area around the stand, started to approach the Pooka.

Patrick cursed loudly, just as Libra called her guards to surround Hal. All of them were armed to the teeth, carrying weapons of spears, knives, maces, and axes; they were all fully prepared to tear him apart. He threw all caution to the wind and rushed to Hal at full speed. And just as a guard was about to rope Hal with a chain, he tackled the Homunculus to the floor and pinned his flaming arms down.

“Damn it to high hell, Hal, CALM DOWN!” he shouted. Hal shrieked and hissed like a writhing cat. Patrick grit his teeth, trying to ignore the powerful flames burning into his suit and arms.

“Aurgh! Get the fuck _OFF!_ ” The rage-stricken spirit burned hotter and struggled harder. He managed to elbow Patrick in the mouth, and the Leprechaun lost his patience. 

Growling in both frustration and pain, Patrick forcibly flipped the Homunculus onto his back. Pulling a fist back, he clocked Hal full across the face before grabbing the collar of his shirt to bring him nose to nose.

“Get ahold of ye self ye brat! Yer gonna burn yerself out if ye keep this up!” he barked.

Hal only continued to shriek like a banshee, sputtering as plumes of smoke and ash erupted from his mouth. He was burning himself out like a roman candle. Eyes dilated from the burning pain, and seeing the guards closing in, Patrick slammed Hal’s head down, flinching when his skull cracked against the floor.

“Is this how ye wanna repay him?! Do ye wanna die, is that it?!” he yelled, “Ye wanna die after all he did to save ye, ye selfish brat?!”

The Homunculus seemed stunned, the only movement he could manage being his erratic panting as his unconscious willingness to keep his fire going wavered. He seemed to realize what he was doing, and who was pinned over him. With a gasp and a blink of burning eyes, Hal’s back arched off the floor, and his fires burned out. He was left staring wide-eyed at Patrick with his now calmed candy-corn irises. 

Panting, the Leprechaun sighed and gave his trademark toothy grin when he saw Hal slowly returning to himself. The Halloween herald stared wide-eyed at Patrick and his burned torso and arms in disbelief. Once he got a full look over the Leprechaun’s injuries, his eyes rolled back into his head and he became limp under the larger male. Patrick quickly checked him over in worry, but then gave out a mirthless chortle when he realized Hal had fainted.

“Yer gonna be the death ‘o me, lad…” he rasped. 

He suddenly became more serious and turned his gaze up to Libra. “Judge, please, let ‘im off. He’s been in pain for months now…”–a glare to the unscathed Pooka–“Sides, that overgrown rodent started this by callin’ ‘im a whore.”

“Are you nuts?! He tried to kill me!” Bunny snapped.

“Bunnymund!” North snapped, grabbing the Pooka’s arm roughly. “Now is not the time to be starting a fight!” he hissed. 

Libra was about to make her own comments, but stopped when other spirits came to the now unconscious Homunculus’s defense. Protests of contempt and provocation on the Guardians’ part were shouted at her, her own resolve faltering. Bunnymund’s own words and actions merely added oil to the flame, so to speak. And although excuses never flew very well in her court, she had to silently yield. And besides, the trial was not about immature comments or rage-induced actions; there was no time to play nannie to a couple of childish spirits.

Her lips tightening into a thin line, Libra pointed her gavel at Patrick.

“He will be let off for damaging my court and attacking Bunnymund, but he is under your watch under probation now,” she said in finality, “I will have my guards take you and Hallow to the infirmary. Both your testimonies are now void.”

Patrick nodded gratefully.

“Yes ma’am,” he rasped. He shrugged off the guards trying to help him up and, ignoring his burns, scooped the unconscious spirit into his arms. A guard started leading him to the door, but he stopped before the wide-eyed Guardians and glared at them.

He didn’t say anything – a rare feat for the otherwise boisterous man. His poison-green eyes averted down to Jack, causing the sprite to jump slightly under the intense gaze. Patrick shook his head in disappointment.

“It’s a shame really,” he said softly, “The lad held ye in such high hopes too. Can’t say I’m not sorry he was wrong…”

With that, Patrick let himself be escorted to the infirmary. The doors closed behind them, and the court was left silent. Dry swallowing, Jack looked back over to where the fight took place and felt himself cringe. Burns marred the once pristine white floors, cracks and fissures made prominent in a few places from Hal’s blades plunging the floor. Burnt remains of Patrick’s jacket and shirt were left scattered over a rather large burn shaped like Hal’s body near their stand. A spider-webbed crack was visible in the marble where Hal’s head had been slammed into the floor by the Leprechaun. 

It astonished Jack that a gentle and quiet Homunculus like Hal could react so…violently. And the words Bunny had said…

_‘He…called Hal a whore.’_ He looked over at Bunny and frowned. ‘ _Why? Why would Bunny call him something like that?’_

While Jack contemplated this, Time smiled down at the sprite, and Nature watched Time himself with a suspicious glare.

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes. 
> 
> 1.) Depending on the crime, Libra herself deals out punishment, rather than a higher up spirit like Nature, Time, Death, etc. But if a spirit were to commit a crime towards the human race itself, or any of the mentioned higher spirits, it is usually they who come up with the punishments - or if the crime is high enough, the type of execution. Most other crimes high enough to get into Libra's court are minor enough for Libra herself to deal out punishment without consulting Nature or the others.
> 
> 2.) A minor OC of mine, Maaka Asaito (very vaguely, her name translates in Japanese as 'red thread') is the spirit of fate and destiny. She weaves and intertwines the single red threads of humans together to form their fate and destiny. Each thread is connected to a two spiders - one on each end. The spiders, which represent two humans, are the physical manifestations of two soulmates. She works closely with Cupid in this regard, as she will give these threads to him to be made into his bow strings to send arrows to their destined matches. A death of one spider will leave the second one without their soulmate and destined partner. Her threads are not by any means completely accurate, or destined to meet as a rule. People control their own fates, but Maaka is the one who writers their base-lines in their threads. It is up to the humans in question to either follow it to the letter, or chose their own path. And while she has a minor omniscience of the future, she is not like Time - she can only see a handful of futures, while Time sees every single one. 
> 
> 3.) A Jorōgumo is a mythical demon (or Oni) of Japanese lore. They are like the equivalent to Europe's Sirens, but with the lower bodies of spiders, and the torsos of attractive women. They lure in wandering people with the music of their Biwa - a Japanese string instrument. 
> 
> 4.) Four minor OCs, the Seasonal Fairies are like Nature's wards and seasonal keepers. Each one keeps watch over and manages one of the four seasons. She long ago granted them these powers to give her a helping hand in managing the seasons. They resemble elf-like winged fairies, and hold no relation to Toothiana whatsoever. They look more like your typical storybook fairies. 
> 
> 5.) Another minor OC, Roadkill. He is a Native American Skinwalker, and the Norther/American Spirit of Animals. He and his kind are widely diverse throughout the globe, and he himself watched over the animals of North America, some parts of Mexico, and Canada. He has a sister up in Alaska, and various other siblings on every piece fo land that has animals. He and his kin work very closely with Nature, though they are typically much shyer than her other Natura charges.
> 
> 6.) One of Hal's defense mechanisms, and offensive techniques, is his ability to literally light himself on fire. He is at his most volatile in this state, but also his most vulnerable. he can burn himself out and either become extremely weakened, or even die if he stays lit up too long. His sense of control also flies out the window, so this mechanism is only ever used in life or death situations, or if his emotions simply get the better of him - or rather, whenever he gets angry enough to lose all control of himself. 
> 
> 7.) Libra's commanding voice only works if one can HEAR it. It is a great feat to block out her voice yourself, but her voice is almost useless against those who may be deaf. But in Hal's case, he is so lost in his own burning emotions and fury, he can't focus on anything except Bunny, and therefore he cannot hear her. This renders her commanding voice useless.
> 
> ~S~


	7. Shattered Silence

_‘What are you hiding from me?’_

This was Jack’s first thought when the doors to their holding room were shut. After the incident with Hal and Bunny, Libra had called for a brief recess so everyone would calm down, and to consult with Time and Nature in private. He and the Guardians were then escorted to a rather plain sitting room – aptly named, seeing as it only hosted a couple couches, a few chairs, and a single coffee table. No windows were seen on any of the four walls, a fact that would have driven Jack mad under any other circumstance. But right now, his brain was in too much of a blurring rush to really register his surroundings. 

His head felt like it was buzzing, like his skull was stuffed with cotton and angry bees. Words weren’t registering to him. He couldn’t even notice how soft and comfortable the couch he was sitting in was. He couldn’t even pay any mind to the Guardians, all of whom were speaking frantically amongst themselves as they voiced their anxieties and concerns. Well, more like Bunny was yelling, Sandy was trying to catch people’s attention (and failing), Tooth was fidgeting, and North was trying to calm everyone with his bellowing voice. So far, no one’s words were reaching anyone’s ears – vaguely he noted that the guards no doubt posted outside could probably hear them.

But for Jack, he wasn’t worried about the situation at present. He was too focused on everything that had transpired in the courtroom, and at an all too slow pace. He felt like a broken VCR recording…

At first, the frost sprite was too caught up in Patrick’s parting words to fully think properly. The Leprechaun was never known for being enigmatic or subtle – he was all bluntness and brutal honesty. And yet, for some reason, those vague words he spoke to Jack had left an impact even more painful than any other form of tactlessness he could have given. It left the sprite feeling like a hole had been punched into his gut. He felt hollowed out, raw and exposed. 

This was all too much, too overwhelming. The Court, the accusations, the gazes of other spirits, the scrutiny, the confusion, the _lies?_ He didn’t know what to believe anymore! All of these things everyone kept saying, all of this overly common knowledge that he had somehow missed out on, it made Jack want to blast his own head off and crawl under a rock. The pitying and disgusted looks he kept getting for his ignorance weren’t helping either – and he honestly wasn’t sure which he disliked more; the pity or the loathing. And Bunny’s words…

_"You're nothing but his and Samhain's whore, after all."_

Anger and disbelief rose like bile in Jack’s chest. Bunny, like Patrick, was never a tactical speaker. The filter between his brain and his mouth was even worse than Jack’s sometimes, and even to this day, he spouted off hurtful things to Jack whenever he was angry at him. But it was one thing to insult Jack himself; his words towards Hal were out of line. But it didn’t make them any less odd either. Hal was not the type to sleep around with others. And he mentioned Samhain*. He and Hal were supposedly close – was there more to it than just a master-apprentice relationship? And Pitch – he didn’t even know if Hal knew Pitch personally. He never mentioned the shade…

_"He was OUR king…"_

Or maybe he didn’t even need to know Pitch personally…

_‘This doesn’t make sense…’_ Jack’s teeth were unknowingly gritting behind his lips, and if Tooth wasn’t so distracted, she would probably be berating him for trying to damage his teeth. 

Jack swallowed dryly – when did his mouth become so dry? His hands were unknowingly shaking, his fingers clenching to try and grasp at something that was no longer there. Where was his staff anyways? What was going to happen now? Did they now have no chance of getting out of this trial unscathed? And if they did, was everything just going to go back to normal, like none of this had ever happened?

_‘No…’_ The all too obvious answer nearly made Jack retch. Reality was crashing into him – he was spinning out of control; not unlike those cars he had seen after slicking roads with ice. He was spinning, he couldn’t stop, he was going to-

“Jack?”

Gasping, his neck recoiling so he was now facing forwards, Jack stared up at the group of Guardians. All four of them were staring at him in a colorful mix of concern, anxiety, and apprehension. To him, they were just being weird and staring at him for no real reason. To them, they were looking at a very, very pale boy with a prominent sheen of sweat on his brow, his narrow chest heaving with shuddering breaths. His hands were still shaking, and whatever form of pigment he had in his skin had all but vanished, making his blown blue eyes all the more prominent. 

North fixed Jack a concerned look before speaking. “Jack, are you alright…?” he asked meticulously.

Jack swallowed dryly around a lump in his throat. He didn’t know how to answer that question. How was he supposed to answer that? Yes, he was fine? No, he felt like he was going to implode on himself from stress and anxiety? Does he lie? Does he tell the truth? Does he tell them how _disgusted_ he feels about Bunnymund’s words? Does he tell them how sick he feels for all these chain reactions happening to others because of Pitch’s defeat?

Does he tell them how _scared_ he is…?

“Jack.” The named frost spirit hissed a gasp when a large, hot hand settled on his shoulder. His eyes veered up and into North’s concerned face – when had he moved?

“Everything will be fine,” the larger Guardian said with an almost hesitant smile, “We simply must explain ourselves. We are Guardians! We shall battle through this.”

_We are Guardians_ …why did that statement almost make Jack want to cringe? 

He didn’t have time to contemplate further, as the door to their suite was opened by a male guard. The eagle-man crossed his hands formally behind his back and nodded to the Guardians.

“Court is back in order, and Judge Libra awaits your return,” he said simply.

The Guardians immediately stood up and gathered around the door. The guard did not move to lead them to the Courtroom, and it took them a moment to realize why and for them to turn their heads around. Jack was still where he had been left sitting, staring down at the marble floor with an almost nauseous look on his face. His fingers were digging into the plush cushion of his chair, and his eyes were blown wide open.

He looked petrified.

“Master Frost,” the guard started, “Please come with us.”

The command was almost made to sound like a polite request. But every occupant in the room, including Jack, knew it was an order that could not be defied. Not unless he wanted to be dragged to the Courtroom in cuffs and chains. He had little doubt they would do just that too.

Mechanically, like one of North’s toy robots, Jack stiffly rose from his chair and followed his fellow Guardians out. He was in a new place, and usually this would prompt Jack to stick closer than usual to the group. However, with his mind so full of chaotic resolve, his emotions buzzing uncontrollably, he was unaware of him being almost eight feet away from the closest Guardian. He was so far out of his own body, his mind seemingly drifting in the winds he so loved to ride on.

What was going to happen now? Were things going to go in their favor now? Was it going to get worse? And Pitch, had he woken up yet? Was he okay? Will he ever be okay?

_‘Why would he ever be ‘okay’?’_ he thought to himself in a rare moment of cynicism, _‘You buried the man alive, and with nothing but Nightmares and Fearlings to keep him company.’_

Company…he almost wanted to laugh at the word. Almost.

_‘You did this, you know…’_ something in his head said, _‘If only you didn’t make such a mess for everyone…pathetic.’_

Jack suddenly froze at his own thoughts. But they were…also _not_ his thoughts? 

“Jack!”

The named spirit’s head shot up from its craned position. His wide eyes stared up at the waiting Guardians and the Guards, all of whom were standing outside an all too familiar door. When did they even reach it? The trip to the suite had taken ten minutes, but it felt like only seconds going back to the Court…

“We’re here…” Jack said, his voice hollow and cracked, as if he hadn’t spoken or used his voice in years.

North nodded sagely. “Yes, we are.”

Without giving the Guardians a second’s notice, the Guard nodded to the other two stationed on either side of the door. They both gripped the large metal knockers and pulled them open, the first ushering the five into the room. But unlike before, it was different.

No changes to the room itself were made, aside from the lights having been dimmed fairly low. It was virtually a black shadow up in the higher stands. But the real significant difference was noticeable. All but the higher spirits – Time, Nature, and Libra herself – were gone. The room was virtually empty. 

Jack looked around the marble stands and at the remaining spirits as he and the others were ushered to their stand, confused.

“Where is everyone?” he asked quietly, almost afraid to raise his voice in the dead silent room. He was almost afraid being any louder than a whisper would break something vital to the universe.

“Dismissed,” Nature answered, her voice unusually loud yet soft in the dim light, “But you will not be prosecuted without a proper jury, nor an accuser.”

_‘Jury…?’_ Jack frowned at this, but looked up at Bunny when the Pooka nudged his arm, “What?”

Bunny did not say anything. He simply continued to stand beside Jack, his ears pinned tightly to his head, and his wide, hunter-green eyes locked onto something in the higher stands. The others were also looking up into the blackened area, eyes wide in an almost perfect impression of a deer caught in headlights. Jack averted his gaze upwards, his eyes adjusting to the dark until he started to make out shapes in the shadows. He felt his blood turn to nitrogen and his heart leap into his throat.

Hundreds. There were _hundreds_ of eyes, all watching him and his fellow Guardians from the higher stands. All as colorfully varied as the spectrum, but all sharp and cutting like snake eyes. Some looked normal enough aside from their unnatural glow or pupil shapes, others made Jack think of the foggy-blind eyes of cave dwellers or deep sea crawlers. He would swear some of the silhouetted heads boasted various eyes, but he could not be sure. No, he could not think straight right now. He was paralyzed, stuck to his spot as those stone-cold, calculating, _hungry_ eyes looked down upon him and the Guardians. His blood was rushing in his ears, only obscured by a rapid heartbeat, and for a second time that day, he felt like he was drowning.

He couldn’t even manage a word before Libra spoke in her firm, commanding voice.

“Guardians, I believe you are familiar with sir Black’s subjects?” she inquired. Jack’s gaze broke from the feral animal-like hold the eyes above held him in, and averted them to Libra. His subjects?

“Yes…” North sounded grim, his baby-blue eyes still glued meticulously to the multiple eyes above them.

“Good,” Libra toned curtly, “Now, before we begin, is there anything mister Frost wishes to ask about this situation?”

Her blindfolded gaze was directed at Jack, and despite her professional demeanor, she almost sounded condescending. 

Jack felt put on the spot. He flicked his eyes to the Guardians and the remaining spirits. And for once, in all his obliviousness, he felt ashamed for being so clueless as to what was going on. All of this new, if not subtle, information was being absorbed into his head, and being wrung out as a million questions each. 

Jack’s hands clenched and unclenched around a missed staff. He felt so bare without it, vulnerable. He wanted it back more than anything, but right now, he just wanted _answers._

“Who are they?” He didn’t look up or gesture to the writhing shapes above him, but everyone could tell he was talking about the dark spirits looming over the Guardians.

“Pitch Black’s subjects and charges,” Libra answered, “They are like what Nature’s seasonal spirits are to her, and you five to your Moon.”

Pitch’s… _subjects_. Was she implying that he was-

“Seeing as you are incapable of making the connections,” Nature broke his thoughts, her tone sharp and heated like a fresh sword out of a forge, “I will make this simple for someone like you.

“Pitch’s title as ‘Nightmare King’ was not just a self-given title. He truly is a king in every sense of the word, and right above you right now, are the shadows and monsters born from his fear and darkness.”

If ever there was a moment Jack had to ask himself, _am I dreaming?_ Now was the time. But then again, at this moment, the question he is asking himself was along the lines of, _is this a nightmare?_

Jack’s sudden experience in a shocked limbo was cut short when an almost tangible wave of tension washed over him, and he looked to his right to see the Guardians all in various stances of tension and unease. Their eyes were looking anywhere but at the front and the dark shadows above them. If he looked close enough, he could see some of their shoulders shaking in some kind of repressed, writhing emotion. It was almost palpable, this unnamed… _thing_ that groaned and rolled in their bodies, releasing a putrid haze of tension and white hot contempt. The misshapen thing writhing in them suddenly arched, and fell silent.

“Judge Libra.” Jack nearly shot through the ceiling from the sudden boom of North’s deep voice. “Please, forgive Bunnymund for his actions. He did not mean-‘’

“Hold your tongue, Nicolas,” Libra hissed, “You are in _my_ court now, and even the daftest spirit in this room can tell he meant every word. I neither sense the desire to repent, nor remorse. You will _not_ defend him.”

The Guardian of Wonder thinned his lips and clenched his fists to his side. But he said no more and only gave a yielding nod. Bunny, however, was glowering at some point at the edge of their stand. 

Jack’s dark brows furrowed in a deep, almost scandalized, frown. What was _that?_ What was that sudden, completely random change in subject? He didn’t even think they would bring up Bunny’s actions from not even twenty minutes ago – because Libra was right, Jack himself could tell Bunny held no regret for his words towards Hal. He was not one to hand out apologies like his eggs or chocolates. No, the Pooka was not a forgiving or forgivable creature when it came down to his own contempt. Jack had yet to hear half the apologies he wanted from his past encounters with Bunny, but even he wasn’t going to hold his breath. Bunny was a grudge holder, and would sooner hold onto his pride and anger than let go and let everyone else move on.

_‘Guardian of Hope…’_ He remembered, from when he was first taken on as Guardian, North telling him of each of their centers. Of what made them who they were, and what they did for the children of their world. 

_“Easter’s about hope…”_ The defeated, _hopeless_ way Bunny had said those words, so melancholy yet passionate…

But he didn’t give himself or others hope of ever earning a simple speck of remorse…?

“Now then.” Again, Jack is startled from his latest resolve by Libra, and he annoyingly makes a mental note to work on his listening skills later. “If the sprite is quite done brooding, we have a case to settle. Time, if you will?”

The mentioned man, who had been reclining in his seat rather comfortably – to the point where Jack had to question if he was, in fact, asleep – gave an almost exasperated sigh before straightening. Lacing his fingers together and resting his elbows on the desk of his stand, Time fixed his sightless gaze onto the Guardians with his usual serene smile.

“As from what my sight of the past tells me, I can assure this whole room that master Black did not have a peaceful moment during his imprisonment,” he started airily, “His confinement was not limited to being crucified inside a cocoon of shadows.”

“Fearlings and Nightmares are sadistic creatures, and so prior to his fifty-year-long confinement, they wanted to have some ‘fun’. I saw the man myself, and I can say for certain; I have never seen such damage on a spirit’s body, nor have I seen one bleed so much.” 

“They…hurt him.” It was supposed to be a question, but even Jack’s own mouth rebelled against his need for denial.

“That is putting it lightly.” Time chuckled. He reclined back into his seat and crossed one leg over the other. “It was quite a show, really. Even if you had not put up that seal, he likely would not have been able to escape his imprisonment.”

Hushed whispers and muffled inquiries ran above them all in the higher, darkened stands. The Guardians seemed to tense once again, that familiar thing starting to reawaken and thrash. 

“We do not understand…” North said meticulously. 

Time chuckled. “So I see. Well, to set to rest your confusion, I’ll be blunt,” he said, “Master Black would be completely incapable of leaving his prison, regardless of the seal or his powers.”

“W-why?” Tooth asked hesitantly. She immediately regretted asking when Time fixed them all with a haunting, almost amused smile. There was a tiny flash of teeth as his full lips stretched into a wide grin.

“To ensure he could not escape, the Nightmares and Fearlings made a point in paralyzing him,” Time said. 

“Exactly ten minutes and forty-two seconds after you sealed him into his lair, they broke him in half and shattered his spine. He was twisted in half when I saw him in the pit of his lair.”

****

**

~s~S~s~

**

****

“Yer an idiot, ye know that?”

“So you’ve said…fifteen times.”

“It was twelve, and ye deserve it ye bloody brat…”

Hal sighed in exasperation, shifting in the cot he was currently lying in. As much as he loved Patrick, his scolding was getting old. It wasn’t exactly helping his headache either, nor was it helping the throbbing in his cheek where Patrick had struck him. And the Leprechaun wasn’t exactly letting him rest. Whenever he was close to shutting his eyes, Patrick’s booming, Irish voice would break any building sense of sleep like a one-legged elephant in a china shop.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than keeping me awake?” Hal muttered.

“Aye, I should be knocking yer pumpkin head off yer shoulders for nearly killin’ yerself,” Patrick hissed. Hal shut his eyes and took in a deep breath through his nose, willing himself to be patient and not to let the Leprechaun rile him up. It wasn’t worth getting into an argument, and he really was too tired to fight back.

Hal’s eyes opened slowly as he let his breath out steadily. A sudden thought came to him, and he made a point in avoiding Patrick’s eyes.

“How do you think he’s doing…?” he asked softly. 

Patrick’s tense figure, sitting in a chair by Hal’s bedside, seemed to slump ever so slightly. His poison green eyes narrowed, and his lips thinned. The urge to reach into his pocket and take out a cigar was nearly maddening, but he didn’t feel like being scolded by Libra’s healers for smoking in the medical bay. Plus, his ruined jacket had been taken away to be disposed of, and unfortunately, he forgot to take his cigar case out before it was taken, along with his flask. 

The Leprechaun ground his teeth in frustration – a habit he never got out of whenever there wasn’t a cigar or alcohol nearby. He sighed through his nose and carefully crossed his bandaged arms.

“I don’t know, lad,” he said softly. He averted his gaze to Hal and quirked a ginger brow. “Ye can’t sense ‘im?” he asked.

Hal said nothing, only averted his candy-corn eyes to the ceiling above him. His gloved hands spastically opened and closed around the sheets of his bed, and his tongue licked over dry black lips. 

“I asked one of the healers when you were being treated for your burns,” he started, taking a moment to look guilty for unconsciously burning his friend, “But they said they couldn’t disclose anything to me.”

Patrick snorted. “Course not…” he muttered darkly. 

Hal ran a clawed hand over his forehead, suddenly anxious. “This is a mess. How did this happen…?”

Patrick could only shrug solemnly. “Ye know as well as I do, lad. The Guardians are selfish and thoughtless. And despite ever’thin’…”

“Go on, say it,” Hal suddenly said. Patrick frowned at the Homunculus. 

“I don’t know what yer talkin’ ‘bout…” he said flatly.

“Say it.”

“No.”

“Say it, or I won’t speak to you for a year.”

Patrick sighed in exasperation, pinching the bridge of his nose. He scratched at the stubble along his cheeks and chin. He wished he was back home in his stone cottage, drinking warmed-over beer, and without a single care in the world. He wished this never happened, that he was wrong. But for once, the Leprechaun felt no pride in being right about something.

He sighed. “I told ye so…”

“So you did.” Hal sighed, fiddling with one of the thin chains hanging from his waistcoat. His once bright eyes suddenly glazed over. “Will things go back to the way they used to be? Before they came…?”

Patrick’s breath hitched, and a rare ache bloomed in his throat and chest. Hal had only ever asked that question a handful of times, and each time it was during a moment of crisis and pain, and of weakness. And each time, it broke the brutish man’s heart, because he could only ever give the same exact answer.

Patrick reached over and rested his large palm over the Homunculus’ forehead, stroking his ringed thumb over a thin brow.

“I don’t know, doll*,” he said softly, “I don’t know…”

Hal felt his eyes burn and his throat close up. He shut his eyes, refusing to shed a single tear. He would not cry right now. Samhain raised him to be stronger than that; with pride, dignity – he had to be strong. Pitch would never approve of him crying over him. 

He was so tired; he hadn’t felt this tired in literal ages. Not since he-

_**Let me out…** _

Patrick, lost in his own thoughts, suddenly came back to himself when he felt Hal tense under his hand. He looked over at the Homunculus and frowned. Hal was board stiff, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, his arms perfectly straight and pressed into his sides. Hal’s skin was pure porcelain white, and yet Patrick would swear he completely bypassed the spectrum and became even paler. And with his palm pressed into his forehead, he could feel the Homunculus’ usually heated skin starting to cool drastically.

Worried, Patrick removed his hand from his forehead and relocated it to Hal’s stone-stiff hand.

“Hal…? Lad, what is it?” he asked worriedly. 

Hal said nothing, only continued to stare sightlessly up at the ceiling. He didn’t even seem to be breathing!

Patrick turned away, about to call for a healer in the next room, but froze when Hal’s clawed hand clamped painfully down on his own. He veered his head back to Hal, eyes wide and lips pressed into a thin line. He swallowed thickly as Hal’s claws dug into his hand, drawing blood.

“Hal…?” he tried stiffly.

Hal at first said nothing, his gaze still fixed upwards. And at the tick of the clock on the bedside, his eyes half-lidded, his white pupils spread and swallowed the orange and gold of his eyes.

“Turn out the lights…”

****

**

~s~S~s~

**

****

“You…you’re lying…!” Bunnymund rasped, green eyes wide.

“Am I?” Time challenged, his smile widening, “You know I do not lie*. Do you Guardians require proof?”

“No-”

“Yes!” Bunny interrupted North, the other Guardians gaping at him as if he were mad.

Time’s low, airy laugh could have been described as delightful, pleasant, beautiful even. Like the deep, soothing bass of a chiming church bell. Such a sound would have – should have – soothed away any tension or fear in anyone.

It raised them.

“Very well…” Without another word, Time reached down to his belt and unclipped a simple silver pocket watch. He wound the thin chain around his fingers and brought it up to rest in his opposite palm.

With steady fingers, Time started to wind the watch. Once, twice, thrice, the steady ‘click-click’ of the winding mechanisms was deafening. A loud ticking was starting to resonate throughout the room, growing louder and louder with each click of the dial.

Finally, the watch gave an audible ‘click’ as it was done being wound. Time shifted the watch in his palm so his thumb was against the dial. Throwing a smile at the Guardians, he pressed the dial, and a silver flash blinded everyone briefly…

And when Jack opened his eyes, his breath hitched as he found himself in Pitch’s lair. 

But it was…different. It was pure black, without the grey-washed light that used to cover the lair in shadows and shades. In fact, it didn’t even look like the whole of Pitch’s lair, but the adjoining tunnel that led into the underground city of shadows. He could barely see anything, but even Jack could tell he wasn’t in Pitch’s actual lair.

Jack veered his head around, trying to find the others, but found himself alone. No Guardians, no Time, no Nature, Libra, or any spirit anywhere. There was no one.

“How…” he rasped, “How did I-”

_**For who could ever love a monster?** _

“NO!” 

The frost sprite gasped and swiftly turned around, just in time to watch as a mass of writhing, screaming Nightmare sand and Fearlings charged at an all too familiar Boogeyman. He watched as Pitch was literally thrown into a rock wall with a sickening crack, the Nightmare sand writhing against the floor and walls like maggots in a carcass. 

“Ugh…!” Pitch rolled onto his side, his face pinched in a pained grimace as he attempted to get back on his feet. But just as he was about to get up on his hands and knees, the Nightmares and Fearlings coalesced and charged at him.

“No!” A tendril of the tainted sand wrapped around his body like a violent constrictor, lifting him clear off the ground and squeezing until Jack could hear faint popping and cracking.

The frost sprite watched with wide, terrified eyes as Pitch arched his neck, his mouth opening in a scream. But no sound emerged, instead a spurt of his black blood guttered from his mouth, the same essence running down the edges of his pained eyes and aquiline nose.

“No…!” he heard the Boogeyman gasp, “I…cannot…I can’t…f-fail them…!”

The writhing mounds of shadows and Nightmare sand unleashed a blood-chilling cackle at his words, the various eyes creased in mirth. The tendrils around Pitch pulsed and threw the Boogeyman against a broken stone pillar. The impact was so hard, the pillar caved in and collapsed, causing it to crash to the floor with a loud, stony ‘bang’. 

The Nightmares and Fearlings cackled joyously, the inky creatures lifting Pitch’s broken and bleeding body out from the debris with such a gentle care, Jack almost forgot that they were going to hurt him. The tendrils cradled the Boogeyman in their hold, smaller wisps emerging and caressing Pitch’s pained body.

**_Such a poor creature,_** they crooned, **_So alone, so broken, such a shameful mockery of a King._**

Pitch choked a gargled cry as the small tendrils hardened to needle points and shoved their way into his wounds, the larger ones pinning his arms and legs to prevent his struggling. Jack didn’t feel himself starting to shake, suddenly rooted to the spot, despite his brain screaming at him to save him.

**_Face it, you will never be seen. You will never exist, you can never be loved_** , the Fearlings giggled to themselves as Pitch released a silent scream, the needle-pointed sand digging further into his body and poisoning him with their toxic fear, **_Such a selfish creature. You can’t even save your own subjects!_**

Pitch’s only response was to cough, a large spurt of his own blood now covering his mouth and chin. He gritted his teeth and, miraculously, lifted his head up to snarl at the shadows.

“You…cannot…kill fear…!” he rasped. The writhing mass laughed loudly and madly, shoving Pitch into a wall.

**_Of course not!_** They cackled, a separate tendril breaking off from the main mass. It squirmed and writhed like an animal trapped in a bag, and it slowly started to take form. **_But what cannot be killed can be broken…_**

The mass expanded and pulsed as it grew and swelled. Pulsing like an organ, it grew and started to take form. Jack and Pitch’s eyes widened in perfect sync, as both watched the familiar silhouette of a scrawny frost sprite take form in the darkest sense possible. The black shape settled its form, and bottomless gold eyes sprung open as an equally unnatural grin broke over the copy’s face.

**_You’re so pathetic, Pitch!_** It laughed, skipping over to Pitch on light and eager feet. **_I can’t believe you thought that I would help you! Why would I?_**

Pitch was starting to gasp against the binds as he stared wide-eyed at the copy. But no sooner was he in shock than he defiantly glowered at the copy and spat at its feet. The copy blinked and looked down at the black spittle by its feet. It cocked its head before looking back up at Pitch, its grin widening.

**_You’re no fun_** , it cackled, spinning on its heel to look at something to its right, **_Right guys?_**

Pitch averted his gaze in the clone’s visual direction. His blood ran cold as he caught sight of familiar, black shapes watching him and the copy.

The carbon copies of the other Guardians, as realistic and menacing as the real ones, stood by with wide grins and mirthful eyes. The copy of North bellowed a deep, warped laugh not at all fitting of the former Cossack.

**_He is fighter!_** It said, a chuckle rumbling in its belly, **_All the easier to break him._**

The copy of Bunnymund hissed and growled like a feral beast, seemingly incapable of actual speech. It cackled roughly and twitched its nose at Pitch. Tooth’s dark clone giggled madly to herself and flitted over to Pitch, caressing his face with mocking croons.

**_Poor Boogeyman,_** she crooned, **_Whatever shall we do with the pathetic creature?_**

**_We break him,_** the North copy rasped gleefully, **_Like old toy._**

Pitch growled and struggled in his binds, before he was suddenly released. He cried out as his injured body crashed to the floor. And before he could crawl away or make some attempt at escape, a rough, skin-scraping sensation wrapped around his ankle and threw him back into another wall. 

He groaned as he willed away the spots invading his vision, but soon came face to face with a black-clad Sandman. The thing’s beady little eyes and overly wide smirk sent a chill down his spine. Two whips of sand were protruding from the copy’s hands, both of which were still gripping his ankle in a death grip. He looked up fearfully, yet stubbornly still, as the mock-Guardians surrounded him.

**_Destroy…_ **

“Ah…!” Pitch’s cry was cut short as the copy of Sandy wrapped various whips around his body, one of which wrapped around his mouth to silence him. He was lifted clear off the ground and above the copies, his body lying horizontal in the air.

**_Tear…_ **

Pitch’s eyes widened as he was steadily bent backwards into an arch. The dull ache from the bend slowly increased into a sharp pain as the whips bent him back further and further.

**_Render…_ **

“MM…!” Pitch’s eyes blew open as his back buckled, and an audible groan of grinding and straining bones reached his and Jack’s ears.

**_Shatter…_ **

Jack was shaking uncontrollably, every fiber of his being wanting to rush over and help Pitch. But he could not move, could not breathe, _couldn’t do anything._

_‘No…’_ he thought hysterically, eyes wide and skin clammy, _‘No, stop…!’_

The copies laughed lowly as the audible groan of Pitch’s contorting body reached their ears. The copy of Sandy pulled the sand whips further and tighter, contorting Pitch further, until finally…

**_Break…_ **

_CRACK!_

Jack’s shudders ceased, but his eyes wide and fixated on the now limp Boogeyman in the Fearling copy’s hold. Black blood and tears flowed down Pitch’s stunned face in rivulets, the tendrils releasing his body and holding him up by his neck and head. The Fearling copies cackled at the paralyzed man.

**_Pathetic creature._** The copy of North laughed. **_King of Fear you are not. King of Nothing you shall be!_**

Sandy dropped the limp creature to the floor, the Boogeyman’s body landing haphazardly in a twisted mess. Blood poured from the unmoving mouth and distraught eyes, and it was all Jack could not do but just _stare._

His own copy approached Pitch. Jack watched as the copy’s staff shortened and morphed into an all too familiar dagger of Nightmare sand. The others surrounded the broken body, Bunny hopping behind Pitch and started clawing and tearing Pitch’s cloak off, leaving deep, jagged claw marks in his wake. It lifted him up onto his knees by his hair and growled into the Boogeyman’s ear. Jack’s copy reached out and ran its hand over Pitch’s bare torso almost curiously. Chuckling, the copy pulled its hand back and ran the tip of the blade down Pitch’s naked chest, stopping to circle his sternum almost teasingly. 

**_Don’t worry, Pitch,_** it said, pulling the dagger back, **_You won’t suffer being seen in such a shameful state._**

It pulled the dagger back, and just as Jack regained control of his feet and made to run for the helpless shade, the copy brought it down and plunged it into Pitch’s chest…

…and then Jack was back in Libra’s Court.

The frost sprite was completely dazed, as if he were outside his own body and floating in a dark limbo. Oblivious as he was, Jack was unaware of the state his fellow Guardians were in. North and Bunny both looked disgustingly distraught and sick, both of them shaking and looking ready to collapse. Tooth was using the desk of their stand to support herself, her hand clamped over her mouth, and her amethyst eyes wide and bright with unshed tears. Sandy was literally on the floor on his knees, his tiny hands cradling his head and his eyes screwed shut. 

Nature was also looking distraught, her hands clamped tightly over her own desk, her nails digging into the marble and causing cracks to spider-web out across the surface. Her dark red lips were pulled taught into a thin line, but there was also a faint quivering to them. It was all too obvious that, despite Jack not seeing them, they had all seen what had happened in that strange vision. And they were all shaken by what they saw.

Time, on the other hand, was completely at ease, reclined back in his seat with his cheek resting on his fist. He smiled at the Guardians and chuckled.

“Of course, it couldn’t stop _there_ now could it?” he said with a flourishing gesture of his hand, his smile widening in an almost gleeful grin, “His torture progressed and grew increasingly worse over the years. And whenever they weren’t torturing him, they were giving him nightmares intense enough to leave physical wounds.”

Jack couldn’t hear him anymore. There was a sharp, screaming ringing in his ears. His knees suddenly gave out, and he was barely caught by the arms by – North? Bunny? Who was it? He couldn’t tell. His sight was filled with images of Pitch Black. The Boogeyman, trapped, hurt, maimed, _mangled bloody beaten pain pain pain so much pain-!_

“Jack? Jack!”

Tooth? Oh, yes, it had to be Tooth, who else would be…?

No…no, that wasn’t Tooth. The tone was too high, and there were…other voices? Other people. Hitched breathing. Low moans and shrill cries. There was the sound of grieving moans and sobs, and animal-like howls and whimpers. But there was also _anger._

“You Guardians have blacker hearts than we do…” was the low, guttural voice that broke Jack out of his resolve.

“Disliber, be silent,” Libra said firmly. A low growl was her response, and Jack watched uneasily as a pair of black and red eyes narrowed down at him and the Guardians, a large shape surrounding them.

Bunny snarled, “You’d know wouldn’t you, Devil?”

“And of course _you_ would know of hopelessness, Pooka.” The shape and eyes moved, seemingly crawling down the stacked stands and closer to the light.

Closer it came, and with each claw-on-marble scrape, the spirit in question became clearer and clearer. Hushed whispers echoed above them all, and once the spirit, the _thing_ , was visible, Jack felt nausea crash into his gut.

The thing was huge, bigger than North even, but with a lanky waist and overly elongated arms and hooved feet. Tattered, leathery bat-like wings protruded from its back, its grey and hairy torso riddled with scars and marks. The beast was nothing like Jack had ever seen. A head like a goat’s with sharp teeth and jagged horns, a sinew and gnarled human torso with rippling muscles, and an equine form below the waist with a pronged tail*. 

Strings of drool fell from the creature’s mouth, and noisy, wet puffs of air filled the air with the smell of decay. The thick, pungent smell was making Jack ill.

“Jersey Devil,” Time suddenly said, pointedly looking at Jack, “The Spirit of Deformed Birth*.”

Jack’s breath hitched at this, and he stared wide-eyed at the beast. _That_ was the Jersey Devil…?

The Devil huffed another putrid cloud of his breath, his nostrils flaring. “You had no right in harming our King.”

“Like hell we did! I bet you’d have loved nothing more than to see kids terrified and traumatized!” Bunny snapped.

The Devil’s eyes narrowed. “You know nothing of us.”

“I know enough, you bloody beast…” Bunny hissed, ears pinning back.

“Enough,” Libra snapped, “We are not here to bring up personal disputes. We are here to settle the matter of sir Black and your gross actions against him.”

“We did NOTHING WRONG!” Bunny shouted, throwing his paws up in the air, “He started it! _He_ attacked _us! He_ tried to take away _our power!_ He’s nothing but a selfish _monster!_ ”

Silence greeted the now panting Pooka, his furry chest heaving in restrained anger. The other Guardians were openly staring at Bunny in astonishment and disbelief, while the Jersey Devil, Nature, Time, and Libra looked impassive. It took a couple minutes for the Pooka to calm down, but when he did, tension fell over the room like a thick quilt.

A beat passed, and the silence was broken as Disliber turned and climbed silently back up into the darker stands. Bunny snarled after him.

“Where you going, Devil?” he snapped, “You got something to say, say it!”

“No,” the Devil rumbled.

“Why not?!”

Disliber huffed and shook his horned head, not even looking at Bunny.

“You are not worth the effort needed to so much as spit, Pooka,” the Devil rumbled. 

Bunny bristled like a pissed off cat. “Why you _fucking-!_ ”

“Gentlemen,” Time broke in calmly, twirling a finger in the chain of his now closed pocket watch, “You should save your energy for what is to come.”

“What are you talking about?” Nature suddenly asked, narrowing her eyes at Time.

The platinum haired man only smirked, tapping a finger against the case of his watch. Nature was about to snap at him about what he was going on about, but she and everyone paused when a low rumble reverberated through the room. Time’s smirk nearly reached his eyes.

“Let the game begin…”

A blood-curdling scream wracked the entire room, and the ceiling exploded and collapsed above them as monstrous tendrils of shadows broke through and crashed along the bleachers. 

Another scream pierced everyone’s ears, and Jack shuddered and felt his knees knock as he recognized it to be the Boogeyman’s scream of agony.

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes.
> 
> 1.) Samhain was Hal's master and guardian, and another one of my OCs. He is a very old spirit who raised Hal and mentored him to one day take over Sleepy Hallow, and take his place as the Herald of Fall, and the Monarch of Monsters. Hal succeeded Samhain a little over 500 years ago.
> 
> 2.) 'Doll' is Patrick's affectionate nickname for Hal. As Hal is a Homunculus, his body constructed in the form a giant wooden doll, it quickly became his nickname. Mostly it's used in teasing Hal, but in some instances - like now - it's used as a sort of comfort. 
> 
> 3.) Let it be known that Time is INCAPABLE of lying. The concept of lying is a bit foreign to him overall, and while he may bend and twist the truth, Time does not outright lie about anything. 
> 
> 4.) The traditional description of the Jersey Devil is often given as a tall creature with the wings of a bat (or dragon), the head of a goat, and the lower body of a horse or goat (cloven hooves). Though many supposed eye witnesses will describe it in other ways, sometimes completely contradicting the traditional image, this is the most widely known image. Although many people will argue that the Jersey Devil has only one hooved foot, the other being a regular human foot. All forms of the Jersey Devil are up for debate.
> 
> 5.) If you are familiar with the Jersey Devil's origins tory, this should make sense to you. There are variations of his story though of course, but popular vote goes to him being born of a human mother who cursed her 13th child. Another, somewhat recent, popular belief is that his father was the devil himself and was born to the real life family known as the Leeds. Their house still stands on Moss Mill Road, Leeds Point, New Jersey. See Wikipedia for the full Leeds story.
> 
> ~S~


	8. Madness and Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _BIG NOTICE._** Books 1 through 3 have occurred in this verse, EXCEPT VOLUME 4. Okay, I repeat – BOOK 4 DOES NOT HAPPEN HERE UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. Some plot devices from book 4 might be used, but other than that, I’m taking my plot back and having it turn on the canon verse – meaning, some things are going to be VERY different from what happened in the books. Serious AU stuff here people. But no worries, any MAJOR changes will be put up as notices in A/Ns to avoid confusion. So keep a look out!

If ever there was a time Jack wished dearly that he could just make the world stop spinning, and time itself would just _stop moving_ , it was now.

He couldn’t fully recall when North had grabbed him and pushed him to the floor, the larger Guardian shielding his frame from the falling debris with his larger bulk. He only knew that right now, he and the others were in danger. There was screaming – from who, he could not tell. But there was one voice he recognized, and it was bellowing, shrieking, and wailing over every other voice in the room. It was the cause of this chaos, and for some reason, Jack thought the banshee screams sounded pained.

Above the Guardians’ stand, Nature and Libra had long since leaped into action – Nature summoning vines and other flora to her disposal, and Libra directing her armed guards. At one point, the Spirit of Justice had tried to subdue the thing that was writhing above them with her voice. But either it simply could not hear her, or her commanding bellow had no effect on it.

“What the hell is this thing?!” Libra snapped, swatting away a wandering tendril of inky blackness with her steel gavel.

“Who do you think it is?!” Bunny shouted.

Unarmed, and unable to move away from the Guardians, the Pooka was fighting off tendrils and stray shadows with hand-to-hand combat, the others fairing with just as much. And the thing above them…no one could really describe what it even was. All they could make out was a huge cluster of writhing, inky black tendrils breaking in through the ceiling. The lights in the room were flickering and stuttering like flames thrashing in a breeze. And stray, silhouetted shadowy specters were gliding on the walls, screaming and spitting at anyone they came close to.

The other dark entities that had been up closest to the writhing apparition had either joined the others on the ground, or had vanished into the non-living shadows to who knew where. And with each minute that passed by, the screaming only got louder, and the assaults more desperate and difficult to deflect.

At one point, when North shifted off of Jack to beat off an incoming shadow, he managed to look up at the writhing mass causing all this chaos. He could have sworn he saw a small flash of grey within the center of the mass, but when he blinked, it was gone and covered over with more shadows and inky essence. 

“Damn it all!” Bunny reached down over his stand and grabbed a sharp piece of granite that had broken from the higher stands.

Without another word, he laid one arm against the stand’s ledge, and brought the sharp stone down onto the cuff. But the marble stake rebound and crumbled with the power of the magic-infused manacles deflecting the blow. He growled and threw the shards aside.

“Judge! Release us!” he shouted over the commotion. 

Libra looked over to them briefly, surveying their limited movement in all the chaos. She seemed like she would follow through with the demand, but was stopped by Nature.

“No! They are not to be released!” she snapped.

“Judge Libra, please, you must release us or-AH!” North kicked away a wayward shadow as it approached. “Or we are left defenseless!”

Nature scowled at the Russian man, but made no further protests as Libra waved a hand at them. Their cuffs clicked and snapped right off their wrists, toppling to the floor uselessly. They didn’t even take a moment to rub the soreness out of their now freed limbs, but instead leaped into action. Four of the Guardians panned out and picked up dropped or discarded weapons by the guards, fighting off whatever they could with the unfamiliar weaponry. Sandy’s Dreamsand weapons were barely even doing anything to the pure shadows, and only served to irritate the squirming tentacles above them. Jack, however, was still gaping at the black mass above them. He was so transfixed to the wild, writhing, _monstrous_ thing, he didn’t notice the others crying out for him as a shadowy apparition leaped from the wall behind him and made to grab him.

“Jack, look out!” Tooth screamed.

Jack seemed to snap out of his trance then, but by the time he turned around, the shadowy apparition was mere feet from him. All he could see was the soulless pit of its dead, white eyes, and its menacing grin as it reached out for him.

He choked on a gasp in pure terror, frozen to the spot in fear as the shadow reached out for him with a gnarled claw…

Which was suddenly gone in less than the blink of an eye. The shadow seemed equally as shocked and startled as Jack, but no sooner gave a choked shriek when a curved blade plunged into its head.

Jack didn’t so much as flinch when a spatter of its black blood flicked onto his cheek and forehead. He didn’t so much as breathe as the heavy-topped blade – along with his attacker – plunged to the floor with its weight. His blue eyes wide and alight in stupefied terror, they flickered up and followed the blade up to its rod. His head tipped back as he continued to follow the rod until he saw a gloved hand, and down further to see what owned that too delicate-looking hand.

Time smiled serenely down at Jack as the crown of the frost sprite’s head nearly touched his chest from how far back it was tipped. He either was oblivious to Jack’s all too startled look at seeing the man so close, or he chose to ignore it. Either way, Time was far too close for the smaller spirit’s comfort. But still, he could not move – his body _refused_ to move away from the being now nearly pressed into his back. 

A strange mix of emotions flooded Jack then, and he wasn’t sure which of them were more frightening. This close to the time spirit, he could fully sense the other’s powerful aura wrapping around his own, engulfing him, _suffocating_ him. Looking into that all too calm, kind, harmless face, Jack felt like he was drowning again…

Time chuckled, tipping his scythe* back upright as he regarded the shorter boy. 

“Pay attention, Frost,” he said, almost kindly, like a teacher gently scolding a student, “Or it will be your cold blood spilled on this floor.”

With a flick of his wrist, the shadow’s head slid and dropped to the floor with a sickening squelch. Jack’s breath hitched at both the sound and the man’s words. But when he blinked and made to respond with an unsure ‘thank you’, Time was gone. 

‘What…? Where…?’ Where did he go? 

“Oi! Frostbite!” Jack again snapped out of an otherworldly stupor at Bunny’s voice. “Get your head out of the clouds and help us!”

Jack tried to utter a reply, but Bunny was too caught up in fighting off more of those strange apparitions to pay Jack any mind. So instead, Jack looked around frantically to try and find anything, _anything_ , that even remotely resembled his staff. His eyes swerved over the room, over guards, spirits, and shadows, until they settled on a discarded spear a few yards off. 

He didn’t even consider the distance, or how dangerously close the spear was to a more concentrated part of the mass – all his brain told him was to _get it_.

Jack sprinted, leaping over downed guards, lifeless bodies of oozing and bleeding shadows, debris, and anything else that got in his way. He only knew that he had to get that spear, and get it now.

He was so focused on getting to the spear, he barely noticed Bunny coming up behind him to throw his pilfered axe at a shadow dive-bombing towards Jack. The distracted frost sprite didn’t even pay any mind to the body that fell mere feet away from him, causing Bunny to scowl.

“Pay attention you bloody nuisance!” he barked.

_**You’re a nuisance…** _

The Pooka’s words struck an old, well-hidden chord in Jack, and he paused in his running. A throb resonated through his chest, and something he had long since thought buried began to awaken. He suddenly felt afraid, as too many emotions inside of him seemed to skid and collide all at once into his heart.

_**You’re nothing but a trouble maker.** _

_**You make a mess everywhere you go.** _

_**Trouble…** _

_**Childish, immature, good for nothing…** _

_**Ignore, invisible-** _

_**Invisible, invisible, invisible, does not exist not worth it useless gone vanish go away leave gone gone gone GONE-** _

“LAD!” 

Jack suddenly found himself once again pinned to the floor by a palm equally as large as North’s, but decked in bejeweled gold knuckles spattered with a familiar black essence. 

Patrick panted above him, but had no more time to regain his bearings. The tendrils of shadows that had wound around one another into a grotesque braid was just then pulling itself out of the crater on which Jack previously stood. He grabbed the sprite by the back of his hoodie and bolted for the other side of the room, his other arm occupied with a fiery haired Homunculus. 

“Spear-!” Jack choked, still in a state of shock.

“No time ye bloody brat!” Patrick snapped. He then unceremoniously threw Jack to Bunny, who deftly caught the sprite and set him on his feet.

“Patrick!” North, a few yards off from them and combating more shadows with two swords, bellowed, “What is going on?!”

“What do you think?!” Bunny screeched, picking up a discarded sword, “Black’s trying to kill us again!”

“Shut your mouth and fight, Pooka!” Nature shouted over at him.

“You’re delusional, sheila!” Bunny snapped. 

Another, higher and more anguished scream sounded out through the room then, deafening everyone briefly. The shadows, and even the darker spirits, seemed to cry out with it. The haunting beasts and eerie souls that once sat up in the dark shadows of the stands seemed to cringe and bowl over themselves in pain. Even Hal gave a short, pained cry and trembled in Patrick’s arms, clutching at the Leprechaun’s bare shoulders until they bled. A tendril suddenly writhed and barreled after Tooth, knocking her clear out of her flight and into a wall. A sickening ‘crack’ was heard as her eyes slid shut and she collapsed to the floor, motionless. 

Bunny, eyes wide, suddenly growled furiously. Looking to his right, he saw a guard readying a bow and arrow, and aiming for a thick black tendril. Snarling, he elbowed the guard and stole the bow and arrow, aiming it not for any of the shadows, but at the center of the mass. 

“You die today you bloody monster…!” he snarled. He was just about to loose the arrow as he caught a glimpse of grey in the middle of the tangled mess above, but cried out and dropped the weapon as a gnarled, clawed hand swiped across his arms.

“You will _not_ harm our King!” bellowed the Jersey Devil.

“You’re bloody _insane…!_ ” Bunny rasped in disbelief, cradling his bleeding paw, “He’s attacking you! He’s going to kill us all!”

Disliber was not swayed, and neither were the dozens of dark spirits circling the group in defensive and armed positions – none of which was directed towards the massive thing roiling above them.

Bunny slowly shook his head, while the others stared in both shock and conflict, unable to comprehend the anger directed at the Pooka. 

“You can’t seriously be-”

“Turn out the lights…!” Hal suddenly gasped, his free hand clutching his head. Everyone’s eyes suddenly turned to the Homunculus in Patrick’s arms, the Leprechaun frowning in confusion.

“What are ye-?”

“TURN OUT THE LIGHTS!” Hal shrieked, catching the entire room’s attention now.

“What the bloody hell are you screaming about?!” Bunny snapped.

“Turn them OUT! He can’t see! It’s too bright! It _hurts!_ ” Hal screamed, his candy-corn eyes wide and crazed, “Turn them out, turn them out, _turn them out turn them out turn them out **TURN THEM OUT!***_ ”

At first confused, Mother Nature and the dark spirits’ eyes suddenly widened in understanding. She suddenly withdrew her vines and other means of defense before she turned to Libra and the Guardians.

“The lights, destroy them!” she snapped, “NOW!”

Without a second thought, the dark spirits broke away from the others and started destroying the dozens of light fixtures and glowing crystals in the room. Weapons were thrown to the lights far too high to reach, while those who could fly daringly dodged and wove past writhing tendrils to reach those close to the ceiling. Though confused, the Guardians followed suit, destroying any form of light they could reach, all the while trying to defend Tooth’s unconscious body from shadows and reaching apparitions. 

A roaring screech rung through the room. This one was not like the one the master of the chaotic storm gave – there was not any anguish or pain, but anger and insanity. It sounded like a million different rabid animals all trapped in a tunnel together, viciously ravaging each other. It sounded evil.

The mass above them suddenly swelled and expanded, its center opening up like a gaping maw. And like a jaw, shards of solid shadows sprouted from its maw, acting as horrific fangs and teeth. The black hole that was its mouth widened and gave an animalistic shriek, spilling hundreds of the same shadowy beings like a purge from a diseased pig.

The flood of shadows was upon them all, and everyone was too stunned to continue their mission. All eyes were on the tidal wave that split and made individual shots for every single one of the spirits in the room.

Jack was once again staring up into the merciless, soulless eyes of a monster. He and the others were frozen in place with terror – there was no escape.

He just wanted it all to _stop._

And it did.

Whether from sheer determination, a measly speck of bravery, or the fright itself, Nature somehow broke from her stupor. Her hair and dress billowing in an ozone-laden wind, she threw her arms up with a determined cry and summoned her lightning. 

A sharp crack broke through the air, before an entire frenzy of buzzing, snapping, and clapping slammed into everyone’s eardrums, effectively deafening them. Webs and whips of lightning spontaneously appeared in the room, each one crashing into every source of light in, and some outside, the courtroom. Light fixtures popped and sparked as they were broken, crystals that held light were shattered into gossamer dust, and anything that gave so much as a speck of light was jolted and downed.

And almost immediately, once the last light was extinguished – it all _stopped._

It was completely, and deathly silent. The screaming, the fighting, the anguished shrieking – it was all _gone_ , completely drowned out in the blinding darkness that now engulfed them all.

Jack’s chest was tight and felt restricted. He wanted to let himself breathe, let out the repressed, stale air in his lungs with harsh pants and gasps. But he did not _dare_ break the silence that stagnated the air. The mere thought itself sent an uneasy sense of nausea through him.

His wide, dilated eyes suddenly swerved towards a faint glow. It became brighter and brighter at a slow, almost cautious pace, as if it was afraid it would be struck down by Nature if it did not mind itself. The dim, orange glow suddenly highlighted where it was coming from. Hal, huddled under Patrick’s torso as the Leprechaun crouched protectively over him, was holding a small orange flame in his cupped palms. The flame itself was dim and fleeting, an almost pathetic-looking thing; like a single candle trying to light an entire empty castle at night. The Homunculus seemed to be making an effort in keeping his over-sized gloves cupped over it so as not to let too much light out, but also trying to allow enough so those without night vision could see. And strangely, that tiny little orange glow gave Jack a sense of safety.

“What…” Jack startled at the sound of Bunny’s hushed yet harsh voice somewhere behind him. “Was _that?_ ”

“Shut ye gob, Pooka…!” Patrick hissed, equally as harsh, yet also holding that same urgent whisper. It was as if everyone was afraid to make a sound, like they expected something to leap out and grab them if they alerted it to their whereabouts. 

Bunny made to throw in a nasty remark, but was stopped as Nature stepped between them, her eyes trained upwards in the general area where the mass used to be. The blackness was so thick and dense, not unlike the darkness she encountered in the decimated lair where she found Pitch. She could hardly see a thing past a few feet above her.

“Hal…” she started softly, yet with determination, “Your flame…”

She needn’t say more, as the Homunculus nodded. He shuffled out from under Patrick, the Leprechaun shifting to still hover over him while they stood. Hal tipped his head back, and brought the little flame to his lips. With a faint purse of his black lips, he blew, and sent the flickering flame up into the higher level.

They all watched, transfixed and breath held, as the flame lit the way for them as it traveled higher and higher. No signs of the writhing beast were shown, aside from the damage and broken debris it left behind upon its attack. Cracks and gashes were faintly revealed along the walls as it traveled higher, with ruined and decimated seats and stands slowly being revealed in its wake. An eternity later – or so it felt like it – it reached the top of the room where a massive hole was brought to light, the interior of a once pristine medical bay now ransacked and destroyed. 

And just along the ledge of the opening, a pale, emaciated grey arm hung limply, lifelessly, before the dim flame. 

Startled, yet faint, gasps were heard from the others, some with anguish, others with shock and horror. Nature looked especially stunned and frightened, her obsidian eyes wide and her lips pulled into a tight line. 

Hal, another dim flame in his hands, flicked his eyes downwards and screwed them shut, his breathing becoming harsh and nearly erratic. Patrick, his face set in a steely mask of indifference, tightly secured his muscled arms around the Homunculus. 

Jack looked around at everyone else, trying to get a feel for their own reactions. The Guardians, unsurprisingly, were all looking up at the mangled ceiling and gaping hole; North – who Jack noted was holding a still unconscious Tooth in his large arms – and Sandy were as wide-eyed and stunned as Nature, while Bunny was only giving the area a critical, almost accusing, glare. The other dark spirits, however, all looked frightened, devastated, _pained_. It sent a throbbing twinge through Jack’s chest, and dropped a cold burden into his gut. They all looked like they had just watched someone leap off a building and plummet to the cold, unforgiving ground. Many were shuffling around and fidgeting, as if wanting to go up and see if everything was as bad as it looked. But it seemed none of them had the courage to do so. 

Except Mother Nature. 

Without a word, sturdy vines sprung from the floor and started to form a high staircase leading up to the ruined medbay. She stepped up onto the first incline, and steadily made her way up, more vines coming up to meet with each step she took. The climb seemed endless, even with the tiny flame illuminating her destination. But there was too much anticipation, too much anxiety and tension for this to be called a simple climb. And with each step she took, that feeling of dread pushed harder and further into their bodies, nearly crushing their lungs and smothering their souls.

At last, the vines reached the top. But Nature herself paused, the ledge just a scant few inches above her head. She seemed frightened, hesitant. As if she did not want to see what was there, what could possibly _be_ there. Yet at the same time, there was a sense of urgency about her. She wanted to know, to see, but she was frightened…

The others startled when she suddenly straightened her back and steeled herself. She took the final few steps – without looking into the other room – and made the landing. 

From their vantage point, they could only see the top of her torso, and the arm that still hung over the ledge. She wasn’t looking at where the man’s body would be lying, but instead staring into the room of the medical wing itself. She seemed to be trying to reassure herself, or perhaps stalling. But when seconds turned to minutes, she finally turned and looked down.

Her face was unreadable, so the anticipation and anxiety was still thick and heavy around everyone below her. They all watched, tense and transfixed, as Nature slowly, ever so slowly, kneeled down by whatever it was she was seeing in that room. She brought her hands up, holding them aloft hesitantly, before she slowly and gently brought them down over whatever she was looking at. Her back suddenly lurched and her head bowed, an indistinguishable sound leaving her lips. It sounded like something between a sob, a groan, and a relieved – _relieved_ – sigh. 

The smallest bit of tension left everyone then, but then rebound as Nature suddenly stood and walked further into the room until she was out of sight. Sounds of her feet crunching over debris could faintly be heard, before there was a pause. Everyone again held their breath, before the sound started up again, and she came back into sight. She held what appeared to be a white sheet in her hands – a sheet normally used for the small beds in the now decimated medbay. Without that sense of caution she used previously, she kneeled down again, and seemed to spread the blanket over the owner of the arm. They watched Nature move about, and suddenly the arm shifted and was carefully pulled up and out of sight by her. She leaned over briefly, before shifting and standing back up – in her arms was a willowy figure wrapped up tightly in the sheet. Stiff and awaiting the woman’s return, everyone watched with deep intent as Nature made her descent at a sedate pace down the stairs, the little flame following at her heels as the vines gave away behind her.

The Guardians were startled when the dark spirits suddenly made cautious, shuffling steps towards the landing of the makeshift staircase. Their eyes were wide, their hands either aloft or wringing in anxiety, as they approached the landing. Even Hal was making his way over shakily, after deftly pushing Patrick back. Jack, whether from bravery, curiosity, or stupidity, followed them meekly, making sure to stick back behind the crowd as he did so. 

Nature stepped off the last step, her vines vanishing completely down into the cracked and broken floor. And in her arms, she held Pitch. But he wasn’t unconscious, or even asleep.

At first glance, one would think he was, in fact, asleep. But after crowding around and getting a closer look, it was apparent that his eyes were _open_. They were not wide open like one would expect from such a frenzied episode, but rather they were half-lidded and dull, like his mind was elsewhere. His expression conveyed as if he were simply bored or blank in expression, or perhaps he was simply tired. His face, while still gaunt, was only tarnished by the trickling streaks of black flowing down from his empty eyes like inky tears. And looking into those dull, listless, grey eyes, it was apparent that he was not truly seeing the spirits gathered around him, or anything at all. Looking into those eyes, it was all too painfully obvious that, while he was still technically alive, no one was home. 

He was practically dead inside. 

Jack made a faint, strangled noise in his throat when he caught sight of those eyes, and he made to back away towards his fellow Guardians. But he was stopped by a deformed and clawed hand landing harshly on the back of his neck.

“Stop, and see what you have done to our King,” Disliber* growled lowly, “See what you have done to a man wanting nothing more than to protect that which he holds dear.”

Another spirit, hidden by shadows and only giving its presence away by its glowing blue eyes, grabbed one of Disliber’s wings and yanked him back with a hard tug. The Jersey Devil growled, but relented, releasing his white-hot hold on Jack’s nape. 

North, at first silent due to a rare loss for words, suddenly stepped forward. He made his steps precise and mindful of the dark beings around him, before he spoke.

“Nature…we honestly did not know this would happen,” he said softly, breathlessly.

“That is no excuse,” a female voice wrung out from the crowd of shades; none of the Guardians were able to pinpoint it among the few dimly lit faces, and the many glowing eyes, “You should have known that damning our King to his own Nightmares was not going to end in a tea party, or some other pleasantry. You _had_ to have known it would end in him beaten and broken in mind and body…”

“Well what do you expect us to do, huh?!” Bunny hissed into the crowd. It was Hal who spoke in place of the female voice. The Homunculus held his head high and approached Bunny, standing toe to toe with the larger spirit with molten eyes of fire.

“We expect you to fix what you have carelessly broken,” he started calmly, coldly, “You destroyed his mind, happily turned a blind eye as his very soul was ripped out and torn in front of his eyes. You and your damned Moon never once considered just what imprisonment would do to him, let alone our world.”

“We demand retribution,” he continued, an angry plume of smoke starting to sift through his teeth, “Whether it comes out of your time or your hide, you _will_ pay for your crimes.”

Bunny snarled down at the shorter spirit, his ears pinning back as he bore his teeth at Hal. “And if we don’t?” he challenged.

“Then we retaliate,” Disliber broke in, growling at the Pooka, “You will pay for your crimes against our crown with the blood you spill in battle against our kind.”

“You speak of war!” North suddenly blurted, startling a few of them. Jack felt his resolve freeze over. _War?_ Were they serious?

“I think it’s a rather fair price.”

The whole room turned to confront the new speaker, before their gazes shifted down respectfully to the man’s cog-heeled boots. Time held his scythe casually over one shoulder, the silver blade completely cleared of the inky black essence it was once stained with from the fallen shadow’s skull. He chuckled airily, running his fingers up the rod of his scythe. The impressive weapon he held so casually almost looked too oppressive and looming for the man’s slender hands and lean figure. It was a startling comparison to the equally startling man.

“You Guardians broke master Black, it should be your job to fix him.” He made a sweeping gesture with his free hand as he made careful steps towards them all. “You disturbed the balance of our world, and are on the cusp of starting a war against his subjects. It really should be no difficult feat on which of the two lesser evils you should take…”

He stopped between Mother Nature and the assembled Guardians, gazing sightlessly down at them with a not too friendly smile.

“And as much as I enjoy watching a good game unfold, I would like this mess resolved sooner rather than later,” he said, before averting his blind gaze to Libra, “What say you, Judge? Is this a fair trade?”

The Judge seemed to give the inquiry some thought, her own covered eyes seemingly looking to the unseen back wall of her ruined courtroom. Whether she seemed annoyed or upset about the damage done, no one could really tell. Even without her blindfold, they all suspected she would still be difficult to read. The stony woman was a no-nonsense kind of person, and even without her giving her own opinion in the matter, they all could tell her mind was made up.

She looked to the Guardians with a simple turn of her head.

“Guardians, from this moment on, until the damage done to Pitch Black and our worlds – mortal and immortal – have been undone, you are all held responsible for his mental, and physical, health and safety.”

“What?!” Bunny roared. 

“It is fair, Pooka,” Libra stated firmly, “Time is correct. You break something, you fix it. There’s no two ways about it.”

Bunny made to protest further, but a heavy hand from North landed on his shoulder, effectively silencing the riled Pooka. But instead of speaking to Libra, he turned to Nature.

“Nature, do you honestly want this of us?” he asked imploringly. Disliber growled.

“You do not get to ask that, Cossack!” he snapped, stomping a hooved foot, “Do not get her involved in our affair-!”

“Disliber…” Hal, surprisingly calm, laid a clawed hand against the Devil’s tense arm. “She has the right to voice her opinion in the matter. You know that…”

The Devil growled once more, but faltered under the Monarch’s gentle plea. He relaxed his stance, but he did not drop his defensive posture. He surveyed each Guardian with blood red eyes, and flaring nostrils. He finally landed on Jack, and he huffed a putrid puff of air before completely falling back, his tail lashing in agitation. 

“My apologies, Lady Nature,” he said without looking at the mentioned woman. 

The emerald woman barely paid the Devil any mind. She adjusted her grip on the skeletal man in her arms, before fixing her obsidian eyes coldly onto the Guardians.

“You will take us to Santoff Clausen,” she said levelly, “You will provide myself and Pitch a room. You are _all_ to stay at the North Pole, and you will _not leave_ without permission from me.”

“What?!” Bunny snapped, the other Guardians (sans Tooth) gaping at her in disbelief. 

“Lady Nature, this cannot be done,” North tried to reason, “Bunny cannot simply stop his work, and Tooth, Jack, and Sandy likewise cannot simply stop doing their jobs without risk of losing belief.”

Sandy nodded vigorously, throwing up various sand images expressing his distress. Low growls from the spirits around them were their response, causing the fallen star to recoil in on himself apprehensively. But their actual reply came from the platinum-haired man beside them.

“You all have workers who can complete your tasks, Sanderson can send out his little dreams from the Workshop, and it isn’t like master Frost is too active these days…” he said dismissively, causing Jack to cringe. Time ran a careful pair of fingers over the blade of his scythe, the touch reminisced of a caress. A shudder ran up the spines of everyone in the room as that all too gentle, yet telling smile crept over his face.

“And besides, no one on this planet is too focused on lost teeth, painted eggs, gifts, snowball fights, or whimsical adventures in the subconscious. Right now, it is the teachers and guides of Pitch Black’s reign who are needed.

“Survival is what matters. Childhood is insignificant.” 

“Which means you, Guardians, and your so called jobs are insignificant,” Nature added stonily, “You all now have quite a bit of free time on your hands. And each second of it will be spent repairing the damage done to this man.”

“You cannot be-”

“Oh, we are master Bunnymund.” Time broke in pleasantly, making the Pooka bristle and his ears to pin back – whether from fear or aggression, no one was too certain. But most would assume it was the former. 

“You owe it to the planet you plunged into disorder,” Libra stated firmly. 

“And to us, and to him,” Disliber growled. 

The flustered and thoroughly frazzled Pooka looked like he was about to make a loud and drawn out protest. But again, he was stopped when North grabbed his arm and gently tugged him back. The Russian man adjusted his hold on the petite fairy woman in his free arm and faced Nature.

“We cannot just completely stop our jobs,” he said, “However, we will make Pitch our priority.”

“Oh, you will, Nicolas…” Nature hissed. She suddenly turned and glided towards Disliber, passing the Boogeyman off to the beast. The Devil lowered his head to the woman and gently took Pitch from her – he held the frail man with a shocking amount of care, his claws held loosely around the man as if he were holding brittle glass.

Other dark spirits shuffled and hovered around Disliber – or Pitch, more likely – as Nature turned back to the Guardians with a hard, stony stare. She moved back and stood before the five, staring down her nose at them.

“You _will_.”

Without another word, Nature raised her right hand, and suddenly the Guardians found themselves restrained by thick vines sprouting from the cracked floor. Five snake-like vines sprouted from Nature’s open palm and dripped to the floor, writhing and coiling around one another in a tangled mess. They slithered on the ground and crept towards the Guardians, these ones covered in thorns the color of blood. Suddenly so close, they realized they _were_ snakes – heads, mouths, glowing eyes and all – with vine and thorn bodies. They crept up each of the Guardians and hissed, before they coiled and shot for the five spirits with gaping mouths dripping with plant residue. Each one wrapped three times around five wrists, before clamping down on the ends of their tails and tightening. Sounds of fright and pain were heard, the sudden sensations managing to even wake Tooth from her unconscious slumber. The thorny snakes tightened to the point of nearly crushing their wrists, thorns digging into flesh, feathers, and fur until blood welled to the surface. 

Jack gave a startled cry and crumbled to his knees as the sharp pain of penetrated flesh was joined by a burning sensation reverberating all the way up his right arm and hand. He wasn’t aware of the other Guardians also exhibiting the same sensations and pain, as his eyes were suddenly transfixed to his arm in fascinated horror. Just under his flesh, he could see _something_ writhing and creeping into his arm from his wrist. He openly gaped in terror, nausea churning in his gut as the vines rooted themselves into his arm like they were _growing_ out of him. Accompanying the worm-like protrusions under his skin was a sickly green glow, highlighting his veins, muscle, bones, and tissue. 

The sight made him want to be sick. And just when he thought the pain and morbid sight was going to make him pass out – it stopped.

Jack clamped his mouth shut as he pitched forward on his hands and knees, his stomach lurching. He audibly gagged and retched, but nothing was coming out. That sickening _thing_ once lying dormant in his stomach suddenly jerked awake and made use of its claws on his organs. His glacier eyes watered, blurring his vision. He gave one final, useless retch before his stomach finally decided it could not be emptied of anything, and his muscles settled into taut and shuddering cords of sinew. 

Panting, Jack shut his eyes and tried to focus on the harsh pulsing in his head from his ordeal. He didn’t dare open his eyes and look at his arm – he blatantly _refused_ to believe this was anything but a horrendous nightmare. 

_‘It’s a nightmare…’_ he thought desperately, _‘It’s nothing but a bad dream, I’m going to wake up soon…!’_

_‘No, you’re not…’_

“Jack…” 

The panting and shuddering frost sprite considered the voice by his ear. It became apparent that no matter how much he denied it, or how tight he closed his eyes, he wasn’t going to ‘wake up’. Whimpering, Jack forced his eyes open and, ignoring the strain it put on his trembling throat muscles, looked up at the speaker.

Hal regarded Jack sympathetically, but gave no other hint of emotion behind either his expression or his eyes. The dim orange flame once nestled in his clawed hands was now floating in the center of the gathering, just barely illuminating the more familiar faces. Carefully, as if he were handling a particularly skittish animal, he placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder, and the other meticulously touched his bicep.

It was a wordless request, and Jack could only give the Monarch a shaky nod as he allowed the other to carefully haul him back to his feet. He was unsteady on his bare feet, but Hal patiently helped steady Jack until he was sure the sprite would not tumble over his own gangly limbs. By the time Jack finally regained his balance, and his blurred vision cleared, he could see the Guardians were in varying stages of recovery. But all of them – including himself – sported a similar trait.

Jack looked at his right wrist, and felt his throat clamp down on itself again. A sound between a gasp and a groan left his lips as he stared in a mixture of revulsion and horror at the all too innocent vine encircling his wrist. The thorns now looked smaller, reduced to almost nothing but little red spots and bumps along the dark green coil. Under it, however, was a different story. There wasn’t any more pain, and he could no longer see the creeping roots pressing up under his skin. It was as if he was just wearing a realistic, vine-themed bracelet. But when he shifted his wrist, he could feel the roots tangled among his blood vessels and bone. 

Hal’s large, warm hand around his bicep squeezed reassuringly before he shuffled away from Jack to stand by the stoic Patrick’s side. The other Guardians finally climbed back onto their feet unsteadily, all of them in states of revulsion and horror at their new additions. It was Sandy who looked up at Mother Nature questioningly and pleadingly. 

“These vines are made from a small part of my power,” she explained, “Like Libra’s cuffs, they cannot be destroyed without my permission. I will know where you all are at all times, and if you try to remove them. And should you try to remove them or if you try to escape my sight…”

She trailed off, as if to make a point. Nothing was happening so far though, and the others thought she was just leaving her threat up to the imagination. 

The thought was banished from their minds, however, at the sound of Tooth’s pained screams. 

The others jumped as the fairy woman suddenly crumbled to her knees and curled in on herself. That sickly green glow was back and reverberating from under the flesh and feathers of her right forearm, the thorns sprouting back out of the vine as the roots writhed and probed at the flesh and bone of her arm. Jack watched on in horror as the highlighted roots traveled further up her arm, nearly reaching her elbow. Her screams only got louder and more pained as they expanded and writhed. 

Bunny leaped to her side and held her up from collapsing fully onto the floor. His ears pinned back from her high-pitched screaming. He turned wide and wild eyes onto Nature pleadingly.

“Cut it out!” he snapped, cringing when the fairy queen arched in his hold and let out a particularly loud shriek, “She hasn’t done anything!”

“Didn’t she though?*” Nature deadpanned, not at all deterred by the sight of the screaming woman. If anything, she seemed almost flatly _pleased_ by the sight. 

A quick survey of the other spirits provided a more muted array of emotions. Hal was expressionless, but his candy-corn eyes expressed sympathy and pain for the fairy woman. Libra, as usual, was stoic and expressionless. Patrick only watched on with a deep set frown on his ginger brows, his muscled arms crossed over his chest in a stony stance. And off to the side, Disliber was not as blank in expression. It was difficult to tell what expression he was making due to his goat-like head, but Jack would swear he was grinning like a mad wolf, his eyes wide red pools of sadistic delight at the fairy’s pain. Time was mostly blank in expression, with his lips only ever so slightly turned the tiniest bit upwards at the corners as he sightlessly watched Tooth writhe in agony. 

A hand on Nature’s shoulder had her clenching her hands into fists.

“That’s enough, dear,” Time said calmly, “You have made your point.”

Nature didn’t move, nor did she avert her eyes from the writhing and steadily exhausting fairy woman. Tooth’s cries were becoming more dazed and rasped, her amethyst eyes flooding with tears and growing unfocused as the pain and exhaustion started to overwhelm her senses. The other Guardians increased their pleas with her to stop, to end the fairy’s suffering.   
Counting down from ten, Nature steadily relaxed her squared shoulders and uncurled her fists. The vine around the woman’s wrist shuddered before seeming to calm its assault. And in time with Nature’s released tension and the snake’s retreating roots, Tooth’s cries slowly reduced to low whimpers and pained gasps. 

The Tooth Fairy fell limp in Bunny’s arms, shuddering and sobbing softly as the pain slowly reduced and left her body. The snake around her wrist retracted its roots, and the glow subsided, until it was once again nothing but a seemingly harmless plant-based bracelet. But everyone knew better…

The Guardians breathed an unsteady and uncertain sigh of relief. But they tensed again as Nature came closer, and scowled down at them like she was looking at something utterly foul.

“Get up,” she ordered.

No one dared to go against her demand, not after _that_. They all shakily climbed to their feet, North and Bunny trying to get Tooth back on her feet. Her legs were shaking and knocking together, her head lolling to one side as she tried to regain a sense of which way was up and down. In the end, she had to lean against North or risk collapsing again. Her face was pale, and her feathers were shuddering and flat against her body. Jack wished so desperately to go to her and console her. But neither he nor the others dared to move from their positions for fear of Nature’s wrath. 

All five awaited further explanation – and hoped it would just be verbal explanations from now on. They didn’t think they could take another ‘demonstration’ from Nature…

The woman scanned a critical eye over each of the Guardians, before she settled on Bunnymund. Sneering at the Pooka, she pointed a straight arm and a slender finger to the Boogeyman in the Jersey Devil’s arms.

“You _will_ carry him,” she said with finality, before narrowing her eyes at the Pooka, “And if you even so much as _think_ of dropping him…”

The threat went unsaid, but it was obvious she would do more than simply awaken the snake encircling his furry wrist and throw him into a state of agony. The Pooka narrowed his own eyes at her, but none the less, made no arguments. He wasn’t so stubborn as to directly argue with Mother Nature when under threat. And besides, her demand for him to carry Pitch was obviously a small form of punishment – if a subtler one.

Without taking his eyes off her, Bunny shuffled towards Disliber. He only broke eye contact with Nature when he was directly in front of the snarling Devil. Both glared at one another, the spirits around Disliber hissing and hovering closer, and the Devil tightening his hold ever so slightly on the Boogeyman in his arms. Dozens of eyes watched Bunny hold his arms out cautiously, but stopped so his arms were left between them, and for Disliber to make the last move.

The Devil growled, but after a moment’s hesitation, slid his arms over Bunny’s, before lowering the dark man into the Pooka’s arms. Bunny, mindful of the eyes on him, made an effort to gently take Pitch from the Jersey Devil. He suddenly tensed when Disliber released Pitch and dug his claws into Bunny’s forearms.

“You bring more harm to him, we will find you…” he growled lowly, nostrils flaring as he craned his neck towards Bunny, “And we will _destroy_ you…”

Haunting agreements were just barely heard, in various languages, from the dark spirits in distorted whispers, and accompanying growls and hisses. 

But Bunny paid them little mind, despite his own mounting fear and apprehension of the various eyes on him from the shadows of the darkened room. He brought the Boogeyman closer to his chest so he held him more comfortably and securely. He was mildly shocked at how disturbingly light the man was. He never could say the man looked heavy to begin with, but the weight he was feeling from the Boogeyman was beyond worrying. Pitch felt almost as heavy as Jack; practically weightless, like he was made of powdered snow and air. 

Bunny blatantly tried to ignore the Boogeyman’s blank, haunting stare. He considered shaking the shoulder the man’s head was propped up against to alleviate such a stare, but a single look from Mother Nature banished the thought. He would not risk it. 

“Libra,” Nature started, turning to the slightly taller woman and clasping her hands in front of her, “I sincerely apologize for the damage to your Court, and all the trouble.”

“It is of no worry, m’lady,” Libra waved off respectfully, “Mister Black is not in his right mind, and was distressed. A courtroom can be rebuilt…”

_He, however, cannot be fixed as easily_ , went unsaid, but it was heavily implied. Not even Libra was immune to wrath, and she most certainly held plenty of it towards the Guardians. But more likely, it was not a personal vendetta, but an unbiased anger towards them for their hand in destroying all order – her own domain – in the world. One would reconsider her lack of bias when she stood by and watched Tooth be practically tortured.

Nature nodded to the Judge before averting her gaze to Time. She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, and he chuckled.

“It is getting late, my dear,” he said gently. Nature nearly snarled when the man raised a hand to push a stray lock of hair out of her face, his fingers grazing her cheek as he leaned in closer to her and whispered, “It’s not good for little girls to stay up late.”

Nature bristled like an angry cat, her hands balling into fists and the plants along her dress writhing. Thorns sprouted from her fists, as if she planned to hit the man before her with the two-inch long spikes. No one was able to hear what he said to Nature, and they held their breath in anticipation.

But nothing happened, she made no move. Time chuckled good-naturedly and moved away from Nature, and made his way towards the door leading out of the courtroom. He paused as he passed by the Guardians, causing them to tense under the powerful man’s unseeing gaze.

“Make this good for me, Guardians,” he said, his lips once again stretching into that eerie, cold smile that he turned onto their youngest colleague, “I’ll be watching from the sidelines.”

And with that, Time swept out of the room and down the dimmed corridor outside the courtroom. The air in the room – now missing one of its occupants – suddenly became lighter. Time’s words left a sick, burning sensation not unlike bile on the Guardians’ tongues. Jack was particularly flabbergasted by the man’s words; did he think this whole thing was a _game?_

“Guardians…” 

The mentioned spirits were startled from their resolve by the low, almost threatening, growl from Mother Nature. They turned to the irate woman, her own obsidian eyes not all focused on them. 

“You will take myself and Pitch to Santoff Clausen…” She deftly waved her hand, and more vines sprung up from the cracked floor. They all held the Guardians’ weapons, and tossed them to their feet carelessly before withdrawing. “And you _will_ pay for your crimes.”

She then nodded over to Libra, and the Judge folded her hands neatly in front of her abdomen as she regarded the Guardians. 

“There will be no set point on where your punishment will end,” she said, “I resign my direct influence outside my ruling, and leave it to Mother Nature to make the final judgment.”

The Guardians blanched at the statement, suddenly on edge and _frightened_. Libra’s words were law, and her rulings final. But in the long run, she has basically left them to Nature’s care, under her ward. She would not interfere above her own ruling and statements – it was now in Nature’s hands as to how they would be treated, and what she would see as just towards them. And even if their treatment was anything but fair, Libra would turn her blind eyes.

They were now completely, and utterly, at Nature’s mercy. 

North could only nod sagely for his colleagues. “Yes, Lady Nature…”

Nature only made a noncommittal sound, while Libra regarded the remaining spirits in the dark room.

“Court is dismissed, my ruling is final,” she said, “A retrial is not assured at this point, but I suggest everyone prepare themselves for one in the coming future.”

A _retrial?_ Jack felt bile rising into his throat. No, he couldn’t handle another trial, not if it was going to be anything like this. He never wanted to step foot into Libra’s courtroom ever again – if it meant avoiding all this anguish, this agony, this soul-crushing _guilt_ , he would run to the ends of the Earth and never look back. 

And by the looks of the other Guardians, they were thinking along the same lines. However, they all knew, and were aware, that they could not escape another trial. And if there was to be another trial, they would have no choice but to attend. Those who did not upon Libra’s request would only dig themselves a hole. And despite their mile-high pile of offences and supposed crimes to the Earth and immortal realm, they didn’t feel like adding even a tiny offence to the looming pile of accusations and sticky emotions. One more just might topple the pile, and crush them.

The dark spirits hovering around them within the darkness all made quiet confirmations, before dozens of pairs of eyes started to vanish. Sounds of flapping wings, scurrying feet, or clawed appendages were heard as others made to leave in the more traditional sense. And all too soon, the room was suddenly occupied by only the Guardians, Hal, Patrick, Disliber, Nature, Pitch, Libra, and a few guards.

An uncomfortable silence stretched on between them. Jack had originally thought that once all – or at least most – of the dark spirits left, the atmosphere would have lightened up. But this was not the case. If anything, it only became strained. He found himself internally floundering, his fingers itching to reach down and grab his staff. But none of the Guardians had moved to do so, and so he felt inclined to wait as well. Add to that, he felt that if he moved even a tiny muscle, the thing between them all would suddenly come unraveled and descend the room itself into more chaos. 

Jack spared a glance to the Boogeyman in Bunny’s arms. A shudder climbed up his spine, and he forced himself to look away from those soulless grey eyes. A chill he had never thought he would ever feel again seemed to crawl into his body and claw at his heart. But even when he wasn’t directly looking at those eyes, he could still _feel_ the gaze burning impassively onto his body.

_‘You did this, you know…’_ Again, that oddly out of place voice in his head hissed, _‘You scared the Boogeyman to death…’_

Scared to death…his mind was not but ash and darkness, but at the same time, he was physically still alive. 

Patrick finally broke the silence with a loud cough. Hal shot him a disapproving frown, but they all could tell that the Leprechaun was obviously uncomfortable, and he wanted things to move along. Nature regarded the large elfin man flatly, before she turned to Libra one last time.

“My apologies again, Judge Libra,” she said, “I thank you for your time as well.” 

Libra only gave a curt, yet respectful, nod to Nature, before she directed her guards to gather others to help clean up her courtroom. One such guard started to relight a few fixtures along the walls – after shooting a questioning look to Nature for permission. And not wanting to take any chances, Nature tore a strip of cloth from her dress to bind Pitch’s eyes and block out any light. She finished the knot – the tear in her dress regenerating and repairing itself – and stepped back, turning to the remaining three spirits outside the Guardians’ circle.

“Can you three get home on your own?” she asked. The trio nodded to her.

“We’ll be fine, Lady Nature…” Hal answered with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. It rather looked like he was putting far too much effort into the smile; it failed to reach the Homunculus’ eyes, and she could tell he was reaching his wits end.

Patrick shifted from foot to foot, before he conspicuously leaned over the petite woman. “Will ye be alright, though?” he asked. 

Nature sighed, unable to answer the Leprechaun’s question. How could she? She was not Time, she did not have an all-seeing gaze outside her own power. She could only see the now, and what was happening on her planet. The future, as it were, was just as far and unknown as the ocean she and many others so loved. 

He seemed to sense her internal uncertainty, and so Patrick left it at that without further probing. He instead directed his attention to Hal, the Homunculus banishing his flame as the room started to light up ever so slightly in a dim glow. A guard approached Nature, holding a familiar glass orb in his large hands.

“All confiscated items will be returned when you see fit, m’lady,” he said. Nature nodded and accepted the snow globe gratefully. 

She turned to the Guardians with a stiff, yet commanding, stance.

“The moment we step into your Workshop, you will direct me to a suitable room for Pitch,” she said levelly, allowing no room for argument, “You will then alert your Yeti and Elves in advance to stay away unless they are told otherwise. If _any_ of them harass him in any way…”

“No such thing will happen,” North reassured. But his tone was more or less uncertain, apprehensive. He didn’t control his Yeti, he was but their employer that they just listened to nine out of ten times. They were a warrior race, and not too inclined to forgive and forget at the drop of a hat.

And the Elves…well, if Nature was going to hover around Pitch, her presence will be enough to alleviate any curiosity they may hold for their ‘guests’. 

Nature only offered a rather un-lady like snort as a reply before she redirected her gaze to Disliber.

“I shall do the utmost to ensure your King’s safety and healing,” she said, her voice surprisingly soft. Disliber made a horse-like snorting noise, his wet nostrils flaring.

“The others will know of m’lady’s kindness…” he rumbled, his bat-like wings quivering. 

Nature nodded and returned to the Guardians, deftly shaking the snow globe before she brought it to her lips.

“To North’s Workshop,” she said.

She tossed the globe against a wall, and the familiar vortex of color exploded before them. The warm glow of the interior of North’s Workshop was distorted through the whirling vortex, mere feet away from the Guardians. But even still, it had never looked so far away. 

“Move,” Nature ordered, pointing to the portal.

The Guardians gave grim nods and collected their weapons from the floor, Jack with a bit more enthusiasm than the others. Their weapons back in their hands – or in Bunny’s case, in Sandy’s small hands – they all moved in a single-file for the portal. North went first to placate any Yeti anxiously awaiting his return. This followed by Sandy, Bunny with Pitch, Tooth, Nature, and Jack as last.

The frost sprite was just about to cross the colorful threshold. And just as his bare foot was about to pass through, Jack was yanked back by someone grabbing the hood of his hoodie. He choked as he was harshly yanked back and spun around, only to get a face full of putrid breath, flaring wet nostrils, and gnarled yellow teeth.

Disliber growled lowly in his chest, his red eyes narrowed into disdainful slits. Jack swallowed audibly as he automatically brought his hands up to his collar to try and loosen the tight pull of the Devil’s grip. No such relief came, and Disliber only growled louder and gave Jack a small shake.

“Know this, Guardian, we will be watching you,” he snarled, baring his teeth at Jack and causing the boy to shudder in fear, “There will be no shadow in that forsaken building without eyes or ears. And should any of us hear or see anything to endanger our King…”

Disliber’s goat-like mouth snarled and opened, causing Jack to cringe from both the drool-laden maw and the putrid stink of his breath. A greyish tongue laced with cuts and dark scars lolled out briefly to lick along chipped teeth and bloody gums. Jack felt the blood drain from his face when that maw only got closer to his face, the smell making him feel sick and weak.

“Disliber.” A firm voice – Hal’s voice – called sternly.

The Jersey Devil averted his gaze to the Homunculus, but he did not release Jack. And seeing this, Hal narrowed his eyes and steeled his posture.

“You have made your point,” he said evenly yet softly, “Nothing will come out of threatening him, much less any help on Pitch’s part.”

The Devil growled lowly and snarled, his grip only tightening on Jack’s hood. Hal was unmoved, seemingly fearless of the Devil’s burning stare and dangerous maw. He knew Disliber would not take his anger out on him or Jack. He was the Monarch of Monsters, he commanded and bent any and all beasts to his will with a fair but firm resolve. The Jersey Devil was no exception. 

Disliber made a sound between a low moan and a dog-like whine. He hissed one last time at Jack before he released his hood and loomed over him.

“Never forget, boy,” he growled, “Monsters are real now. And we will show no mercy towards our prey…”

With that, Disliber spread his tattered wings and beat them once. The air current nearly knocked Jack off his feet, and he brought an arm up to cover his face from any flying dust kicked up by the large wings. And by the time he lowered his arm and looked up, Disliber was gone, and the room was suddenly much lighter and brighter. 

He breathed a shaky, almost hesitant, sigh of relief. But it was short lived when Hal fixed him with a stony stare of indifference and… _disappointment._

“Heed his words, Jack,” he said wearily, “And go home. Take care of our King.”

The portal would not hold for much longer, and the others were going to start wondering what Jack was doing if he didn’t go through. He only gave Hal a meek nod and, with an apologetic yet uncertain glance at the redhead, stepped through the portal. The vortex collapsed and vanished the moment he was completely through, leaving only Patrick, Hal, and a few guards in the wrecked room. 

It was silent.

For a long time it was silent in the courtroom, eerily so. Patrick almost wondered if any time had passed at all, and that they all were still stuck in that tense stalemate in the darkness. But a look around only reaffirmed that it was simply the two of them now. 

The Leprechaun swerved his poison-green gaze to the Homunculus curiously. Hal looked exhausted, his once proud façade lost now that everyone was gone. He sighed and laid a large hand on a narrow shoulder.

“Oi, he’s gonna be okay, lad,” he said carefully.

Hal sighed, and pulled an orange-sized Jack-o-lantern from under the tails of his waistcoat*. Blowing into its mouth summoned a flame in it, and he tossed it against a wall. His own portal was summoned in a vortex of fire and ash. He looked up at Patrick tiredly, his eyes dull.

“You coming with me?” he asked, “I’m technically on probation now, and Libra said you were supposed to keep an eye on me.”

Patrick remained blank in the face, but inside he was deflating like one of Harlequin’s burst balloons. For all Hal’s pride and dignity, he was not subtle in asking for someone’s companionship for his own comfort. Hal did not ask for help; Samhain raised him with the pride of a stallion, and the stoic dignity of a cat. And no matter how much coaxing reassurance Patrick would give, Hal would never outright admit he wanted someone by his side when he was in distress. 

The Leprechaun eventually nodded and joined the Homunculus before the vortex. He wasn’t going to gauge Hal at this point; both of them were beyond exhausted, and mentally drained. A guard beside them using a long pole to light another light fixture caught Patrick’s eyes, and he frowned.

“Lad…” he started, catching Hal’s attention.

“Yes?” he inquired. Patrick rolled his tongue over his teeth, probing at a gold canine. He quirked a brow at Hal with a frown.

“Ye told ever’one to turn out the lights,” he said. Hal, his face blank, only offered a slow nod.

“Yes,” he said. 

“Ye also said the light was _hurting_ ‘im…” Patrick continued, crossing his thick arms, “How did ye know the light was the reason for ‘im goin’ nuts?”

Hal did not reply right away. He only turned his head away from Patrick to stare into the swirling fires of his portal. His eyes clouded over, the orange glow of the fires reflecting blurrily in his glassy irises. Patrick was becoming unnerved and restless, shifting from foot to foot as he flickered his gaze to various points of the room.

Hal suddenly straightened his slouched posture and craned his neck back to look up at the hole in the wall above them.

“I heard him…” he said impassively, “I heard him screaming about how much it was hurting him…”

He said nothing else, and without waiting up for the Leprechaun, stepped through the vortex and into his own home. Patrick stared at the spot his little friend had once been standing in, as if half expecting Hal to suddenly reappear and elaborate. But there was no such luck, as to be expected.

Patrick sighed and moved towards the vortex himself. He needed a cigar and a stiff drink…

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes.
> 
> 1.) Time uses a scythe in most offensive situations, but he hardly ever uses it outside of combat. His primary tool outside combat is a simple gold and silver staff with a complex Armillary sphere at its top.
> 
> 2.) Let me just clarify here that, as Hal's entire being is tuned into the supernatural, and even the grotesque, he has a natural, if slightly inconvenient clairvoyance that tune shim into the darker forces of the supernatural and spirit world. As such, he is able to 'hear' Pitch inside the mass and determine what is agitating him, and therefore agitating the Fearlings into a frenzy. This of course is a very one-sided connection, where Pitch cannot hear or feel what Hal feels, but Hal can certainly see, hear, and feel what's happening to Pitch. 
> 
> 3.) Disliber's name is a combination of two Latin words. 'Distorqueo' - a vague translation of deformed, or to distort, twist apart, or torture. And 'liberi' - a vague translation of children, plural of child. Please note I am NOT an expert in language or in Latin in general, and when I was trying to find a name for Disliber, this was the best I could do, and I just like the name overall. Everything else just did not fit. So to those who are more informed in the language of Latin, I know this is a bit insulting, if not inaccurate. But too bad. Fight me. 8D
> 
> 4.) Let's all take a minute to reflect on the moment int he movie where, powerless and helpless and scared, Pitch was punched in the mouth by Tooth out of petty revenge. Moving on. 
> 
> 5.) I might change this down the line, but Hal's portals are almost exactly like North's in terms of their overall use and flare. However, his jack-o-lantern bombs ONLY take users to Sleepy Hallow, and nowhere else. North's globes can take you anywhere, while Hal's bombs only have a single set destination.
> 
> ~S~


	9. Drowning

And it was dark.

And he was scared…

Why was it so dark? How could it be so cold? And _why_ was he scared?

This strange void, like the abyss of the deepest ocean; he couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or screwed shut. Either way, he somehow found himself staring into an endless space of black. There was nothing. Not a sound, not a smell, no light, _nothing_. It was complete and utter _black_.

Did he even exist? He had to question whether or not he was actually a living, conscious being in this vast, lonely void. For how could anyone exist in such darkness? Why would anyone willingly drift like a wandering dust mote through this inky veil? 

Was he truly here? Was he actually a _he?_ Where, and what, _was_ he?

Awareness then, as once dull senses seemed to be the only form of illumination in the abyss he drifted through.

With a frown concealed by the heavy blackness of the unknown, he flexed his feet. He had feet, he was a person – he was Jack Frost. 

He would have been elated if he weren’t so confused. Shifting his feet more, he came up with one conclusion. He wasn’t standing on anything – he truly was adrift. And yet, this strange floating sensation wasn’t like the feeling he got when the wind picked him up to hover in the air, or blast off for another continent. This was lighter, calmer – yet eerie. He was suspended without a hand from any element he had ever known. What was this strange force of weightlessness?

A sound.

Like the gentle, mourning sigh of a starving animal’s last breath. And suddenly he knew his eyes were open, and his hands and feet were free to move about. Dark as it was, with no sense of equilibrium or reference to up or down, Jack could only test the motion of his limbs and body.

He inhaled – when had he been holding his breath? – and nearly choked. The air was so thick and muggy. He could barely move his limbs, and only seemed to achieve a sluggish motion when he put all his strength into swinging an arm or leg. It was like he was plowing through sand, trying to push through molasses, or…

Swimming in water…

A heart he did not realize he still had hammered against an unseen, narrow chest. Water. He was under water. He was back under his frozen pond, trapped in the abyssal darkness of the freezing waters, he was drowning, no escape, so scared, so cold, _drowning drowning drowning-!_

_‘The Moon…’_ his frantic mind rasped, _‘Where’s the Moon?!’_

He had to get to the Moon, it was the only thing – the only person – who could save him. But he could not see it.

_Swim up_ , a part of his mind screamed. But where was up? Where was down? Where was the bottom and the surface? He could see none of these things – it was just _black._

_Blorp…_

Jack froze, his heart stuttering. Somehow, despite the blackness of the underwater abyss, he could see something floating upwards and past his face – a bubble. It was moving _up._

And suddenly, light. Blessed, wonderful, silvery light. He looked up, and saw the all too familiar, round shape of the silver-white Moon. He almost wanted to cry in relief. He probably did and would have noticed if he wasn’t surrounded by water.

A voice suddenly breaks his resolve – it was the sweetest voice he had ever heard. And he had only heard it once when it told him his name.

_“Rise…”_ it said. The Moon was beckoning him to rise from his watery grave.

Relief coursing through him, and renewed courage prompting him, Jack forced his heavy limbs to help push him to the surface. He was going to be okay; the Moon would make sure he was okay. He was going to live, he wouldn’t be alone in this dark void anymore. He would not be _alone-_

_“Jack…”_

A throb, resonating from his chest and down into the soles of his feet. That voice – that deep, accented, gentle baritone that could sooth and scar one’s heart and mind. That man’s voice, like velvet and rose thorns – it beckoned him.

Though reluctant, his body seemed to have a mind of its own. And he looked in the direction the voice came from – down. 

Eyes of gold and silver gazed up at him like a mortal would at the heavens – with curiosity and reverence. Those eyes, sulfuric and burning with so many things Jack could never name. That man, willowy and slender as he remembered, clad in a swath of pure shadows, and skin kissed by the grey of a corpse. His swept, crested raven black hair gently swayed in the unseen current of the abyss, the rest of his body as still as a statue. And yet, when Jack locked eyes with that man, the man who ruled the void of his surname, and the purity of his given name…he felt pain.

They stared at one another for a seemingly endless amount of time. It was when Jack managed to realize who he was looking at, he noticed what the man was _standing_ on.

A crystalline surface of dark blue and whorls of milky white. A chill was felt, rising up from the icy surface. And when Jack looked at the ice, he felt true fear.

He tried to speak, but all that came out of his mouth were bubbles and no sound. He was mute in this watery world. 

Pitch, still gazing up at Jack with sad, tired eyes, lifted a slender arm up towards the frost sprite. Reaching for the teen spirit, his mouth opened as his dark lips formed audible words that sent icy pins and needles into Jack’s nerves.

_“Save me…”_ he said.

No plea, no begging, no true desperation. A request. A choice. Jack had to choose between… _what?_

_“Rise…”_ the Moon called once more, prompting Jack into looking back up at his desired light. 

Jack felt dread creeping into his heart. He was afraid, and knew not why. And yet, he knew that his actions would determine the fate of the Boogeyman below him. 

_“Jack…”_ It wasn’t his name being called that prompted Jack to look down in alarm, but the steady, soul-crushing sound of cracks forming in thin ice.

The cracks under Pitch’s feet spider-webbed outwards all around him. And yet, the Boogeyman paid them no mind – whether he was aware of them or not, Jack did not know. All he did know was that it wasn’t water that was leaking from those cracks, but a black essence that was not like this watery void. This essence was not like the pure, unspoiled darkness he drifted in – it was _evil._

_“Save me…”_ Pitch said again, his hand reaching for Jack.

_“Rise,”_ the Moon called.

The cracks spread further, and more of that clawing, writhing, _hellish_ essence reached out and started groping for Pitch’s cloak. The little tendrils of darkness writhed and screeched, causing bile and terror to rise up into Jack’s throat. They went from shapeless tentacles to clawing hands and protruding maws of teeth and tongue. He watched, morbidly transfixed, as one hand grabbed the hem of Pitch’s cloak.

_“Save me…”_ he said, still in that same, soft, unurgent voice. It was as if he didn’t expect Jack to come for him, and his request was just an empty, last ditch plea that he knew would not be sought through. Like he expected to be left behind…

_“Rise,”_ the Moon beckoned urgently, reverently. He wanted Jack out of the abyss, and Jack wanted to be out of it.

The cracks thickened and spread. Pitch only continued to stare up at Jack forlornly. His hand was unmoving, his expression unflinching, even as those black claws sunk into his feet and legs. 

Those eyes did not so much as blink when a claw reached further up and sunk into his other hand and pulled him down just the barest bit. 

_“Save me…”_

_‘Oh god…’_ He had to do something. Jack could see some writhing, grotesque thing just under the surface of the breaking ice. It was no mere monster, and he did not want to get anywhere near it. 

But he did not want Pitch to fall victim to it either.

More tendrils snaked their way around Pitch’s lithe body, thorns sprouting from the snake-like vines and tearing into his pale flesh and dark clothes. The ice gave way slightly, and more of that tainted essence sprung free and climbed Pitch like strangling ivy over a lamp post.

_“Rise.”_ The Moon’s voice sounded different now – agitated, urgent, desperate. 

_‘No…’_ No, not yet. He would bring Pitch with him, to the Moon, where it was safe.

_“Rise…!”_

Paying the command no mind, Jack gathered his courage and swam down for Pitch. His wide, frantic blue eyes stayed locked onto Pitch’s. If he looked anywhere else, he feared he would hesitate and turn back and leave the Boogeyman to his fate. 

He steadily neared the man being dragged to his watery grave, the essence tightening and nearly consuming Pitch in its grasp. 

_‘Hang on…’_ he pleaded wordlessly to the shade, forcing his leaden limbs to swim faster, _‘Just hang on, I’m almost…!’_

So close. He could almost brush his fingers against Pitch’s own. He was almost there! Just a little farther, and then-

He stopped.

Something _made_ him stop.

His wrists and ankles protested as pain shot up his limbs as something tightened around them. He gave a soundless, bubbly cry when he was yanked back a few paces, and he veered his head around to face what was preventing him from helping the Boogeyman.

He felt his water-filled mouth somehow go dry, and that icy dread in his gut exploded and spread through his blood.

Moonbeams.

The beams of light tethered around his limbs like iridescent ropes, their blue-silver glow so soothing and gentle. And yet, their grip was unrelenting, cruel. Like a careless, thoughtless child scrambling to catch a frightened animal by its tail.

Jack struggled against the beams of light luring him up like a fish on a hook towards the Moon. 

_“Rise,”_ it said.

_‘No…!’_ Jack looked back at Pitch, increasing his struggles as the ice started to give way and admit more of that dark essence. _‘I have to help him…! Help him! Please!’_

_“Rise.”_

_‘Please! Why won’t you help him?!’_ Jack screamed wordlessly in a cluster of bubbles and fear and anger.

A pause.

And then the Moon spoke to him.

_“He does not belong…”_ he said.

_CRACK!_

With a tug on the ensnared Boogeyman’s torso, the ice completely gave way. And like a sputtering geyser, that black, tainted essence congealed around Pitch, and formed a great beaked maw that would make the Kraken look like a gaping, landed fish.

_‘NO!’_ Jack was yanked upwards towards the surface, the water rushing past him as he stared in wide-eyed terror as the maw and tendrils formed around the Boogeyman.

_“Rise.”_

_‘No…’_

The tendrils writhed and the maw growled and groaned like a wounded animal. Slowly they encircled Pitch’s body, tightening and squeezing until Jack could hear the pop and crack of his bones. Black blood – so unlike the tainted black of that monster – wisped and mixed into the dark water like blood from an injured fish. From his unblinking eyes, his nose, and his expressionless mouth – Jack watched Pitch break and bleed as he was pulled higher and farther.

_‘No, Pitch…!’_

_“Rise.”_

The maw growled, and Jack could not find the will to shut his eyes. Instead, he watched as the toothy maw shuddered and the tendrils dragged Pitch further into it.

_‘Pitch…!’_

_“Rise.”_

And with a sickening snap, and one last glimpse of those sad eyes, it bit down and consumed the Boogeyman.

_“Rise!”_

A flurry of bubbles erupted from Jack’s mouth as he screamed.

_**“PI-”** _

 

****

**

~s~S~s~

**

****

 

“PITCH!”

Head spinning from the sudden change in position, Jack felt the whiplash of sitting up so quickly only delude his hazy state further. He panted and gasped, lungs scrambling for breath that refused to come. Eyes wide and unseeing, Jack could only focus on his fear and the thundering beat seemingly determined to pound itself out of his chest.

He sat upright, panting, for what felt like eternity, before he felt bile rising up into his throat. He leaped out of bed out of pure instinct and scrambled for the waste bin by the bedside table. Lurching, he emptied the contents of his stomach from the last twenty-four hours – which wasn’t much. Choking, he continued to heave and retch painfully, his head pulsing and his throat convulsing as the acidic stomach fluids burned his esophagus. 

An unknown amount of time passed before his stomach settled, and he was able to open his teary eyes and control his breathing. Shaking and covered in a cold sweat, Jack weakly looked up from the trash bin and looked around.

A cozy, blue-clothed bed off to one side of the wood-cabin-like room. A nightstand with a lamp and a clock, a penguin plush toy perched on the rumpled sheets of the bed, a dresser next to the door, a wardrobe on the other side of the room, a large round window above him on the back wall. A toy chest sat pushed up against the wall next to the wardrobe, and various clothing articles and toys lay scattered on the floor. Childish drawings were tacked to the walls like band-posters, each one preserved in a clear layer of ice. A layer of frost and ice seemed to cling like dust to the furniture and ceiling, the dim light of the moon-shaped nightlight by the bed casting the icicles above him in a gossamer array of sparkles and color. 

A round skylight revealing the starry night sky sat perched above the bed. He was in his bedroom at North’s Workshop*.

_‘How…?’_ He couldn’t even finish the thought as a chill climbed up and down his spine.

He shuddered and shakily stood up on his feet with the aid of the nightstand. Carefully, he moved back to his bed before unceremoniously collapsing onto it. He let out a shuddering breath as his body and mind slowly started to calm and his memories caught up with him.

He was at the North Pole, Santoff Clausen. With North, Bunny, Tooth, Sandy…Mother Nature… _Pitch…_

Though hesitant, Jack looked down at his right wrist. Sickness bubbled up in his belly once more, but passed just as quickly. The dark green snake-like vine around his wrist remained harmlessly motionless. And yet, he knew that with even the slightest prompting, it could plunge him into a world of pure agony. 

It all seemed to come back to him then as his scrambled thoughts reorganized themselves. The Court, the trial, Libra’s ruling, Pitch’s frenzy…

They had gone through North’s portal and entered the Workshop. The Yeti were less than pleased to see Pitch again, but swiftly cowered and held their tongues at the sight of Mother Nature. With a few words to North’s right hand Yeti, Phil, the Russian man at first wanted to get Tooth to the infirmary for rest, but was overruled by Nature’s lethal scowl. He passed the exhausted fairy queen off to a Yeti, before leading her and the other Guardians to a guest room.

After that, Jack could barely recall much. He could only vaguely remember North leading them into a nicely sized guest room. Bunny had gently – with Nature’s eyes boring into him – set Pitch on the large bed and stepped away from the Boogeyman. Nature had then turned to inspect the room with critical, narrowed eyes. She made a few adjustments – she closed off the fireplace, shut the blinds of the window before covering them with a thick layer of vines, and made sure all the light-bulbs were unscrewed from nearly every light fixture. The room would be submerged in complete darkness when the door closed and shut out the soft, orange glow of the hall. 

Finally, Nature inspected Pitch’s body. Physically, he was unharmed – at least not any more than he already was. Libra’s healers had managed to patch up all the wounds on his body, his chest tightly bound in thick gauze. At the center of the white mass, there was a dull grey-black blot steadily spreading – no doubt his dressings would need to be changed and disinfected regularly. His palms were equally bound, but were not bleeding as badly. All other cuts, lacerations, bruises, and other injuries were seen to*. There wasn’t much to be done about the broken ribs Nature managed to locate, so she left them alone.

It wasn’t even that much later that one of Libra’s messengers dropped by – she carried with her two scrolls. One a document giving Nature the right and legal pardons essentially making her the Guardians’ warden, and a medical report on Pitch’s injuries.

She made sure to read the report out loud for the Guardians when the messenger left. 

The injuries, they found, did not stop at Pitch’s external body. The real reason his mouth was bound was not to keep him from screaming – a delight to a typical Fearling or Nightmare – but to keep that sharp, needle-like shard of solid Nightmare sand stuck in his esophagus. The healers had meticulously removed it, but his throat would take much time to heal since the needle had been stuck there for so long…

More needles had been discovered in his body, in various places – all mostly in his joints*. His knees, elbows, wrists, even in the apex of his thighs into his pelvis, and in the joints of his fingers and toes. 

The healers had also located and removed more needles and angular shards from Pitch’s stomach. His throat showed signs of being force-fed some of the objects, while those too big were simply shoved into his belly and forcibly healed over. 

The only comfort – laughable – was that there was nothing wrong with his eyes.

He was still emaciated and unresponsive. Nature seemed to contemplate the blindfold around his eyes, but soon shook her head and sighed. There was no use helping it, and she didn’t want to work him up into a state again – humorous as it would be to see half of North’s domain toppled down the mountain. She covered him with a thick quilt and made sure he was situated comfortably on the bed, before she straightened and only stared at him. 

Not a sound or voice was heard for a long, tense few moments. It became eerily thick in the room, the air somehow muggy. The Guardians were all pale and looked ill – Nature’s vivid, yet flat, descriptions of Pitch’s injuries left a bitter and sour taste in their mouths not unlike bile. Pitch had a long way to go for recovery – physically. Mentally, they all honestly couldn’t be sure if he ever would recover…

As a man of actions and loud words, North was not able to stand the silence for long, and so took the risk of breaking it with an unsure tone.

“Nature, if there is anything you or he may need – food, water, medical-”

“You have helped quite enough,” Nature said lowly, not looking up at the Guardians, “If I need something, I will summon you. If he needs anything, you all will be the first to know.”

“Oi, we ain’t no one’s lackeys…” Bunny growled, yet somehow his jab was halfhearted and meek.

He bristled slightly when Nature turned and fixed him and the others with a scowl.

“Funny, I thought you all were dogs to your beloved Moon,” she scoffed, shaking her head, “I guess even the most loyal dog can contradict in the face of others.”

“Hey, we-!”

“Bunny…” North growled in warning. The Pooka sneered, but relented, lowering his aggressive stance. 

The Russian man cleared his throat, eyeing Pitch nervously. “You are sure he does not need anything?” he asked, surprisingly soft.

Nature did not answer, instead she turned and laid a petite hand on the quilt beside Pitch’s shoulder. She seemed to watch, transfixed, as his narrow chest rose and fell shakily under the seemingly too large, too heavy blanket. A part of her wanted to rip the fabric off of him for fear of the hefty patches and thread crushing his frail body. And yet, she knew this was a silly, childish thought. She almost laughed. ‘Mother’ Nature indeed…

Gently clenching her hand into the quilt, she sighed deeply and waved a hand deftly. The wooden floor seemed to come alive below her and sprout up, forming a rough stump-like chair for her. She smoothed her skirts as she settled onto the wooden stool, her hand not leaving its spot on the bed.

“You may leave now,” she said quietly, as if she were afraid to disturb the Boogeyman’s sleep, “You are not needed now.”

Jack thought Bunny would make another protest at being dismissed like a domestic dog, but was surprised when the Pooka only snorted and lumbered out. Though hesitant, North also followed, but Sandy looked to and from the door and Pitch with worry etched on his face. He seemed to consider something, before he mentally made up his mind and floated towards Mother Nature. 

The woman did not look up from her fixation on Pitch, but it was clear she took notice of the Sandman’s golden glow, as it cast itself upon the frail form and seemed to highlight her hair and emerald dress. 

Jack stood back and watched, rooted to the spot, as Sandy formed a ball of Dreamsand in his hands and meekly offered it to Nature, gesturing to Pitch as golden butterflies formed over his head. A peace offering.

He could not see her do it, but Nature’s eyes slowly swerved to look at the stout man and his golden offering. And for a moment, Jack thought things would lighten up, that she and the others could now work more peacefully in healing Pitch.

But his hopes were dashed.

Nature’s suddenly clawed hand swept out in a wide arch, startling Sandy as she knocked the ball of Dreamsand to the floor, where it burst into gossamer particles and lay in a discarded pile. Startled, and not hardly frightened, Sandy only floated a few paces away from Nature as the woman gave him an ugly scowl not befitting of her otherwise lovely face.

“Do you dare mock me? To mock him?” she hissed, twisting in her seat to face Sandy, “Your disgusting, unnatural sand shall not touch one hair on his head. If I catch you so much as contemplating giving him a dream, I will hunt you down, and turn you into a glass lump.”

Jack felt a bubble of anger rise up in his gut from the woman’s treatment of his friend’s peace offering. He was only trying to help, to be kind and give Pitch a good dream. What was wrong with that? Why did she have to react so violently?

_‘Is it truly a good idea to give a scared Boogeyman good dreams?’_ a cynical part of him, buried deep and only a wisp of his subconscious, sneered, _‘Do you truly believe it is what he wants? What he needs? You have not the right to offer any form of comfort now. Pathetic…’_

This strange, new part of his thoughts frightened Jack, but at the same time, he had to embrace it. Because it was right. What good would it do to give Pitch a dream that would only temporarily mask the horror of his waking life? There was no point; it would be cruel. Like dangling a piece of meat in front of a starving dog, before taking it away and having it for yourself. Pitch didn’t need that…

Sandy, dejected yet meek, could only nod in a chastised manner at Nature’s words. It still didn’t mask the pain he felt from having a dream rejected – that had never happened to him before. No one had ever rejected a pleasant dream from him. It sent an uncomfortable, strange sensation into his heart.

Holding his gaze for a moment longer, Nature finally turned her attention back to Pitch, resuming her post with her back to them.

“Leave,’’ she hissed.

Sandy didn’t even protest this time, and left with a submissive incline of his head. He floated out towards Jack, who had been standing in the doorway the whole time. He placed a small golden hand on his shoulder, shaking his head at Jack’s conflicted expression.

_There is no helping it_ , he was saying. 

Jack could only lower his head dejectedly, before he nodded. “Okay…”

Sandy offered the frost sprite a small smile, before forming an image of a bed and a stuffed penguin over his head. Jack let out a weak chuckle.

“Yeah, I am tired,” he said wearily, “I think I might go to bed. Unless the others need me?”

Turning his eyes skyward, Sandy thought for a moment, no doubt mentally reaching out to the others to see what they were doing*. Everyone was gathered in the Globe Room in the overstuffed chairs and a coffee table – Tooth was there as well, a wrapping of bandages around the base of her left wing, but she was otherwise fine*. Everyone looked tired and beaten, in no mood to discuss anything relating to the matter at hand.

Soundlessly sighing, Sandy smiled weakly and shook his head at Jack. Jack returned it halfheartedly. Sandy patted his shoulder one last time before floating out to join the others, leaving Jack in the open door of the dark room hosting the Queen of Nature, and the King of Darkness.

His hand twitched around his staff, wanting so badly to say something, _anything_. But what could he say? What could he possibly voice to the furious woman about the damaged man? What could he _do_ to make any of what he helped to do better?

_‘Nothing…’_ that voice said flatly, calmly, _‘There is nothing you can do now…’_

Shutting his eyes, Jack resigned himself to the thought. He felt a burning in the back of his eyes, his throat starting to close up. No, not here. He would not cry here, in front of Nature, in front of the man he hurt. He had not the right.

He muttered a quiet ‘good night’ to Nature and Pitch – not receiving or expecting a response – and left for his own room. 

Somewhere during the time he entered his room and propped his staff up against the dresser, Jack had fallen into a restless sleep. And he dreamed of the abyss, an expanse of thin ice, the Moon, and Pitch…

And then he woke up.

And somehow, he only wanted to go back to sleep – a dreamless sleep. And he never wanted to wake up. He did not want to face all the hellish chaos that was happening around him right now. He wanted all of this to be a bad dream, a nightmare he could shake off later once he woke up.

Why couldn’t it be that simple?

_‘Because you don’t deserve such an easy way out.’_ Again, that part of his brain that seemed to be on a mission to make Jack feel terrible, hissed.

But it was also right – it has been right ever since he heard it. All these wishes and desires for things to be easier, less painful, not real…it was all just childish whimsy. And he had no time for such folly.

Jack almost laughed. How ironic – the Guardian of Fun had no time for playing make-believe or pretend. How low he and his fellow Guardians had fallen…

Jack turned his head over to the nightstand, checking the clock. It was fairly early in the morning when they came back from Libra’s Court, but now it was past dusk. He looked up at his window. He could see the Moon, now currently in its crescent shape and obscured by snow-heavy clouds. He shuddered, and reached over to slam the drapes shut. 

_‘Always hiding…’_ it said, _‘Always running…’_

_‘Shut up…’_ he thought back.

Sighing, Jack rubbed his forehead. His head hurt, but he wasn’t exactly inclined to go back to sleep. He did not want to dream again. And even if he knew he would have a dreamless sleep, he couldn’t stay in his room forever. He needed to talk to the others now. Maybe by now they had come up with some sort of plan to fix this mess. 

Looking down at himself, Jack resolved to change first before heading out. He opened his wardrobe to a whole line of various hoodies, shirts, sweaters, and pants – no shoes, he still blatantly refused to wear anything on his feet; not even socks. He selected an identical blue hoodie to the one he wore often, and a pair of fitted brown pants similar to the ones he wore now. He never did get into the swing of fashion variety – he was too comfortable with the familiar. 

Shedding his sleep-worn clothes, he quickly changed into the fresh hoodie and pants. He kicked the dirty clothes into one corner before he shuffled for his staff, not even bothering with the laundry hamper. 

Gripping his staff, he pushed his door open and started down the hall towards the Globe Room.

He felt like a zombie. He was listless and dazed, dark bruises hanging under his eyes. He had slept for almost a full day, and yet he felt like every hour was a night missed of restful sleep. He barely paid attention to the Elves scampering around his feet, ignoring their attempts to gain his attention. 

As he neared the Globe Room, he could hear something – voices. One of them he recognized to be North, but the other was too low to recognize. It was familiar, but he couldn’t place a name on it in his hazy state. 

Frowning, he picked up his pace. And as he neared the Globe Room, he could finally start to discern the words and voices.

“It ain’t none of your business.” He recognized the hostile tone of Bunny.

“Aye, t’ain’t my business, but it’s his.” Irish, a low baritone with a husky lilt – Patrick? 

Jack’s frown grew deeper as he neared the room itself, pressing into the wall leading into the open doorway. He shifted his head slightly to peek inside.

The Guardians – North, Tooth, Bunny, and Sandy – were all assembled by the roaring fire place. And before them stood Patrick and Hal. He was visibly shocked to see them here. Hal was on parole, and Patrick – wasn’t he burned and supposed to be watching over Hal? And yet here the Homunculus and Leprechaun were, standing calm and firm before the Guardians. Well, Hal stood, Patrick seemed to be looming over the others as was his usual stance. 

North, having stood off to the side, spoke up, “Even so, Hal is on parole, he should not-”

“He’s on parole under _my_ watch,” Patrick interrupted. He promptly pulled a cigar out of his new jacket and lit it. A puff of thick smoke billowed from his lips and nose as he took the first inhale, causing Bunny to cringe as the smoke hit his sensitive nose, “Besides, Lady Nature asked for ‘im.”

“Since when?” Bunny snarled.

“Since now.”

Jack startled and nearly yelped, but somehow found the will to choke himself off. He turned wide, frightened eyes up at the emerald clad woman beside him in the doorway. He was still hidden from the others’ view, and yet she didn’t even spare him a glance. She seemed to blatantly ignore Jack as she drifted into the room and stood before the others in all her regal grace and power. Clasping her hands in front of her, Nature turned her obsidian eyes onto Hal.

“You got my message.” It was a statement.

Hal inclined his head, removing his hat and holding it respectfully against his abdomen. “Yes, I did…”

“You are uncertain…” Nature said softly. Hal shook his head.

“It is always uncertain,” he said offhandedly, “But…I know you have the right to know. And so do the others.”

“The hell are you yacking about?” Bunny growled.

“I would say it is none of your damned business, but considering Pitch is now _your_ responsibility” – Nature paused and turned a scathing look to the Guardians – “Hal is going to use his gift to look into Pitch’s soul, to see if the damage you all wrought can be fixed.”

Jack felt his eyes widen a minuscule amount at the information. Hal could do that? How? Just what were he and Nature looking for inside Pitch?

_‘What do you think?’_ that voice – he was going to have to give it some kind of a name later – sneered, _‘Can you imagine the prison he must be trapped in within his body and mind? You better hope his mind and soul can be repaired. If not…’_

The threat remained up for debate. But Jack had to wonder; how was it he could threaten himself? Was this strange, cynical part of his consciousness so separate from him, that it could actively threaten him? Or worse, could it act on its threat…?

_‘It seems we have been spotted…’_

Frowning at the odd comment, Jack looked up, and felt his breath catch in his throat as his glacial irises seemed to laughably freeze as they locked onto candy-corn pools. Amber, orange, and white pupils stared at Jack like they were peeking into his very soul, studying him, _dissecting_ him.

A frown creased the Homunculus’ brows, ignoring the others as they spoke heatedly. He didn’t seem to be paying attention to the meeting, but rather had all his cat-like attention on Jack. Their eyes were locked with an invisible bar between them, their gazes grazing the doorframe as sparks of curiosity and stagnant caution stilled them. 

Jack felt a shudder run down his spine, and swallowed dryly. He vaguely felt a trickle of sweat crawl down his temple, the air suddenly hot. He had never felt this way around his friend; never had he felt this strange heat of…hostility? Confusion? Anger? He didn’t know what to make of it. All he knew was that he didn’t want to be near it. He wanted to run; run outside the Workshop and fly out into the cold night, and never look back. He wanted to _run…_

_‘How typical…’_

Jack clenched his jaw. No, he wasn’t a coward. Whatever this was, he would face it. Even if it meant losing his friend…

_‘And a liar too! How cute…’_

_‘Stop it…!’_

Jack screwed his eyes shut and shook his head vigorously, as if he could dislodge the painful voice in his head. And when he opened them again, Hal was no longer looking at him, but up at Patrick. The Leprechaun was giving the Homunculus a curious, concerned look, and said something Jack could not make out to the smaller spirit. Hal only shook his head, and turned his attention to Nature.

“If I may have a few moments of preparation, my lady?” he asked. Nature scrutinized the Homunculus briefly, her brows furrowed.

Hal’s expression yielded nothing, his face was utterly blank, yet his stance was straight and solid. Nature’s eyes slowly swerved over to the door, and Jack gasped softly and shuffled away and to the wall again, his heart pounding.

A moment of tension passed, the Guardians looking to one another curiously in confusion. Bunny though, had his gaze locked unbreakably onto Nature, his ears flattened. Jack could feel the tension leaking from the room like water from a rusty faucet. It was eating him alive, consuming him from the toes and up his legs. He had never wanted so badly to flee in all his life…

A blink of obsidian eyes, and Nature turned back to Hal. The tension seemed to bleed utterly from the room, and yet there were still a few lingering stains and wet spots here and there; it lingered. 

“You may,” she said, before adding in a curt, “Be quick about it though.”

“Yes ma’am,” Hal said, inclining his head gratefully to Nature. 

And with that, he placed his hat back on his head, and left the room. He seemed to completely ignore Jack, turning down the hall opposite of where he came, and vanished down the dark corridor. Jack swallowed a lump in his throat and clutched his staff like a lifeline, old wounds having reopened; was his friend not even going to acknowledge him anymore…?

“Oi, brat.”

Jack gasped and swiftly turned, staff poised for an attack. He froze in terror as Patrick’s hulking form glowered down the rod of his staff. The cigar poking from that frowning mouth was lit and permeating a thick, spicy scent into the air. His large body seemed all the larger in the seemingly small corridor, and blocked the others from seeing what he was doing – and inevitably Jack himself from their view. 

The Leprechaun snorted suddenly, using one large hand to shove the staff away from his angular nose. Jack hesitantly lowered it, hands shaking, as the Irish spirit crossed his thick arms and sneered down his nose at Jack.

“Have a good nap?” he asked. The question would have seemed innocent if it wasn’t for the growl used to say it, and the obviously displeased glare from the large man. 

“Y…yeah…” Jack muttered.

Patrick made a noncommittal sound, reaching up to his cigar. The end lit up in a low, orange glow before he pulled it from his mouth. The spicy smoke blasted in a long plume from his nostrils, clouding Jack’s view of him and making the sprite want to cough and cover his mouth and nose. He waited for Patrick to do or say something more, but the Leprechaun only twiddled his cigar between his index and middle finger, studying the bright embers of the burning spices and Tabaco at its end. 

Shuffling from foot to foot, Jack contemplated going back to his room. But with Patrick leaning half in and half out of the doorway, he was partly blocking the hall leading to Jack’s room. And he did not want to risk pissing the man off; a mad Leprechaun was a death warrant. And he did not feel like taking his chances with the one Leprechaun with enough overprotective tendencies to permit him to crush a few skulls under his leather shoes or between his beefy hands. 

Jack startled slightly when Patrick’s poison green eyes locked back onto him. He was oddly reminded of a cobra staring down a mouse; or in this case, a very large, very angry, very _unpredictable_ bear staring down a snow fox…

“Ye got some nerve…” he started lowly, “Ta be hidin’ up in yer room, whist Hal, Nature, and I are worrying ourselves sick.”

“I…” Jack swallowed again – he would kill for something to drink to clear away this _thing_ in his throat. “I didn’t…know…”

“Tha’ seems ta be yer excuse for ever’thin’…”

“It’s not an-!” Jack growled and sucked in a deep breath, trying to ignore the tightening of his throat as he inhaled the burning spice of Patrick’s cigar, “I am not using it as an excuse…I really don’t know _anything…_ ”

“Then ye should ask,” Patrick said flatly, tapping his cigar deftly. Ashes fell and singed the floor slightly. Jack vaguely wondered how upset North was going to be for having a burn mark on his clean floors…

“Why _don’t_ ye ask?” Patrick continued, sounding honestly curious, but still incredulous. 

Jack didn’t answer right away; he was asking himself that question himself right now. Why hadn’t he asked more about their world? Why had he never thought to see if there was more to their world than Santa, the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, Sandman, or Boogeyman? He had seen and briefly met other spirits before he joined the Guardians; why had he never thought to ask about them? About the community and order they held? He and the Guardians brought childhood bliss into the world, and yet…he had no idea what everyone else did; not even what Hal and Harley do! 

What did _he_ even do anymore?

_‘You run like a coward.’_

He ignored the voice, and the sting it sent into his heart. He had no time to be wallowing in self-pity. But it was so very tempting, so very _easy_ to do…

Jack felt his resolve suddenly kick itself, and he straightened and looked Patrick in the eye.

“What do you do?” he suddenly asked. 

Patrick blinked, and a sudden, brief twitch came to the corner of his mouth. It was gone before Jack could wonder if he’d seen it or not, and his mouth was back to its usual, frowning flat line. 

“Yer on the right track,” he said, “But it’s not me who ye should be askin’ about.”

“Hey.”

The two spirits turned, Patrick’s eyes narrowing and Jack swallowing harshly as they locked onto a pair of hunter green eyes. Bunny stood behind Patrick, his arms crossed and ears pinned back aggressively. He was giving the Leprechaun a dirty look, despite being a full head shorter than him*.

“The hell are you talking to him for?” he groused. Patrick snorted, nonchalant.

“Aye, good question,” he said, tapping more ashes from his cigar. Bunny’s nose scrunched up at the smell, “Ye know it’s rude to eavesdrop.”

“Yeah? And it’s a bad idea to be coercing one of our own against us.”

“Look, Bunny, he wasn’t-”

“Pipe down, frostbite,” Bunny growled through gritting teeth.

Jack recoiled, before lowering his head like a chastised child. Patrick, eyes on Jack, hummed lowly before averting his gaze back to Bunny. He took a drag from his cigar.

“The lad can talk to whoever he wants,” he said. Bunny scoffed.

“Not on my watch he can’t,” he snarled, “The last time he was left to talk to some shady bloke, he nearly ruined Easter.”

Jack felt a sharp noise in his ears, and a painful sting in his eyes, chest, and throat at the Pooka’s words. He never did fully get over that, though he brought it up less and less with each year at least. But this was the first time he had ever used it as…as what? Some excuse to tell Jack what to do? A guilt-trip?

_‘Not even your so called ‘friends’ are supportive…’_ that strange voice said.

Patrick’s frown deepened, having caught the rather prominent cringe Jack gave as he seemed to curl in on himself from Bunny’s words. Well, at least now he could confirm the rumors of that day of the Nightmare War*. But that was a blow even lower than the belt.

“So I recall, as does he,” he said.

Bunny looked over at Jack, and while he did not outwardly show it, he felt guilty somewhat. But his pride refused to let him show it in the face of the man he threw the words at. Bunny only bore his teeth at Patrick, his paws clenched into fists.

“Either leave and find that damned gourd-head, or I show you what a real bar-fight feels like…” he hissed.

Surprisingly, Patrick made no move to reply or even retaliate. It would have been the norm for the Irish spirit, and yet he was utterly relaxed, if not still agitated. But the Leprechaun only grunted lowly, removing his cigar from his mouth.

“Aye, doll will need help later…” he said. He absently flicked his cigar to the floor and turned on his heels, stalking down the hall Hal vanished down.

It was silent between Bunny and Jack, the two of them seeming quite keen in observing the slowly dying butt of Patrick’s discarded cigar. Jack had to wonder how North was going to take having his floors dirtied in such a way.

At that thought, he looked up and peeked around Bunny and into the room. Everyone was still talking to one another – or more scowling and sneering in Nature’s case. Either they hadn’t noticed Bunny and Patrick’s confrontation, or they were making a point in ignoring them for privacy’s sake. 

“Don’t listen to that sod,” Bunny suddenly said, catching Jack’s attention, “Leprechauns are sneaky, lying little imps. Whatever he says, it’s a lie for Hal’s sake.”

Jack frowned, suddenly remembering something.

“Bunny…” he started, catching the Pooka’s attention, “What you called Hal in the Court-”

“And it’s true!” Bunny snapped, nearly looming over Jack, “The little snake and Samhain weren’t just master and apprentice. He’s rolled through the ranks through others’ beds like a log, and Pitch was no exception.”

Jack was too stunned to reply, and Bunny apparently wasn’t about to wait around for one. The Pooka snorted lowly to himself, before he turned and stalked back into the meeting room, closing the door harshly behind him. Despite having a door slammed in his face, Jack still felt nothing but shock at Bunny’s words – vague in a way as they were.

He suddenly felt angry – not at Hal, but at Bunny. Why would he say such things? He had never heard of such a thing; everyone loved Hal. He would never just…whore himself out to others for status. He ran a whole Moon damned _kingdom_ for heaven’s sake! Yet Bunny was so sure of the Homunculus, and gave no explanation. It made no sense…

He suddenly sighed, defeated. The anger drained right out of him like dirtied water down a drain. Thinking about it wasn’t going to get him anywhere, and he suddenly found himself so tired again.

He gave the closed door one last look before he turned back down the hall and made the trek for his room once more.

By the time he had reached his room, Jack felt like he had run a marathon – without the wind’s aid. He was exhausted, both mentally and physically. He wasn’t used to this level of tiredness, nor to the aching in his limbs and the tight heat in his chest and throat.

_‘Is belief in us going out already?’_ he wondered.

_‘Perhaps, perhaps not,’_ the voice said, _‘It couldn’t possibly be anything else, now could it?’_

Jack shut his eyes and leaned back against his door, kneading the heel of his palm into his forehead. He didn’t need this. This should not be happening to him – to anyone. But it was, and he felt so helpless. How was he expected to fix this if he didn’t even know how to?

The soft clicking of shoed feet reached his ears suddenly, and Jack turned his head slightly as they moved closer towards the other side of his door. The vine bracelet around his wrist pulsed and sent a feeling of dread through Jack’s body, and he stiffened; it was Mother Nature. He knew; he couldn’t see if it was her, but he _knew_ it was her.

He listened intently as her steps grew nearer, seemingly in time with his increased breath. His lungs expanded into his stomach, and he could feel his hands shaking. Was she coming to see him? Was she mad he hadn’t been at their meeting? Or was she coming to spite him for eavesdropping on them?

He swallowed dryly, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. The footsteps drew up just outside his door…and then they stopped.

Jack felt his breath hitch, but he did not dare move. He leaned into the door like it was the only thing shielding him from the rest of the world. Pathetic as the notion was, considering what the door was made of* and who was behind it. His heart was pounding and crashing into his ribs like lightning into a brittle tree. He wondered if Nature could hear it through the thick door. He also vaguely wondered if this sudden panic was a product of the shackle she bestowed upon him and the others. He did not know – he only knew that he was afraid.

Jack wanted to _laugh_ at the irony.

And just when he thought he was going to break down into a nervous wreck, the footsteps moved on, and vanished down the hall.

Jack waited a few moments before he allowed so much as a twitch of the finger. But that one small movement broke him and turned his bones to jelly. He slid down the door and collapsed to the floor, shaking. He felt exhausted and terrified – like he had survived a vicious attack, but was left with many scars and broken bones. He was so _tired…_

_‘How can you be so exhausted from a pathetic encounter like that?’_ that voice asked.

_‘I just am…’_ Jack replied back weakly, suddenly in no mood to consider the oddly cynical voice in his head.

_‘Hmph, seems to me I gave you too much credit,’_ it said, _‘You just couldn’t do it, so you hid behind your door like a cowardly knight behind his shield.’_

Jack gritted his teeth, deciding to ignore the second voice. But he had to wonder; just why had he been so terrified? There was no real reason for Nature to attack or demean him. Scold, maybe, but she didn’t seem like the type to outright seek someone out and harm them without reason. But then again…recalling what she did to Tooth, unprovoked, it made him wonder. 

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What should I do…?”

_‘Talk to her.’_

The answer from the voice was so blunt, so deadpanned and annoyed; like a parent telling their child to do something more than once as a constant reminder. But really? Talk to Nature?

_‘Either go to her and clear things up…’_ the voice said, _‘Or sit here and wallow in your terror like a pig in mud.’_

Jack cringed, and before he could even question why he was doing it, he was opening his door and jogging down the hall where he heard Nature vanish into… 

_‘You are pathetic…’_ that voice hissed, _‘A mere sham of an encounter has left you weak and heart-truck. Pitiful…’_

“Stop…” Jack rasped weakly, “Just…just stop…”

****

**

~s~S~s~

**

****

The hall Jack was creeping down was completely unfamiliar to him. He had only ever explored the bright, toy-laden, Yeti-bustling areas of North’s Workshop. He had visited the other guest wings for the Guardians, as well as North’s room too when he needed to. But everywhere else was completely unknown to him. The hall he was in now was unfamiliar and unexplored by him – by anyone it seems, judging by the layers of dust and the dim lights in desperate need of changing. Everything was covered in dust – the floors, the decorations, even some of the paintings and pictures and the entrances to the unused Elf-tunnels. It was empty and cold, his only company being the sound of his own bare feet against the dull wooden floor. The few light fixtures that remained lit were dim and fleeting, some flickering like dying fireflies, and others completely dead. It made the corridor eerily haunting and bleak.

The only reason he knew Nature had come down this way was because of the footprints she left in the dust. She wore some kind of simple slippers it seemed, judging by the full shape of the prints. There were straight streaks of cleared dust as well, no doubt from the drag of her dress. 

Jack felt disturbingly claustrophobic; there were no windows within the corridor, and therefore no other way out except to turn back. But he couldn’t, he wouldn’t. He just didn’t know why he couldn’t or wouldn’t…

Just when he thought he was going to find no end to the hall, he came upon a set of double doors, one of them slightly ajar. A small streak of multi-colored light flowed out through the opening, giving the hall more light than it probably had ever seen in quite some time now. Jack tightened his grip on his staff, but suddenly felt his shackle tighten and pulse. 

_‘Does she know I’m here…?’_ he wondered.

No answer came, and he was both glad and disconcerted about it. But it was no matter; he couldn’t just stand there all night. If she came out and saw him, he was pretty sure she would do something to him if she thought him spying or eavesdropping. He couldn’t risk it.

So taking a deep breath, he stepped closer to the door, and gently nudged it open with his staff.

Light.

In so many colors and shades. Every color of the rainbow was in the circular room, each one dancing and bouncing against the low-slung walls like children trying to see over a banister. The glass murals – for this is what they were, he was sure – covered every inch of the dome, leaving nothing but a mere couple feet of plain white wall all around it like a thin ring. 

The light of the moon blasted through each colored shard of glass, casting the whole, large room in a sea of color and light. Jack had never seen anything so mystifying, and he stared transfixed to the dancing shards of light spinning lazily around him like circling fish. 

“Beautiful, is it not?”

Jack gasped and spun around, eyes wide. Nature stood off to the side, looking up at the murals as well. But her face was not one of awe or admiration; rather it was set into its customary, blank look with a flat line for a mouth. She looked stern and composed, her hands folded neatly in front of her. 

Jack’s grip on his staff loosened and tightened spastically. But he quickly collected himself none too gracefully, and fully faced her with a stiff posture.

“Uh…yeah, it is,” he said, before he frowned, “What is this place anyways? I’ve never seen it before…”

“Your Guardian friends never showed it to you,” Nature said. It seemed to be a question, but with how she said it – with the utmost lack of surprise, and almost expectant tone, it sounded more like a comment.

Jack winced faintly. No, they never showed him this amazing, mural-laden place. Maybe they thought he wouldn’t have cared, or perhaps they forgot about it. It was certainly abandoned-looking enough with the hallway leading to it.

He shook his head, eyes narrowed. “No…they didn’t. Too busy.”

Nature nodded. “Of course…”

She suddenly moved over to the closest mural – a diamond shape with shards of green, purple, pink, and blue. She placed a delicate hand on one of the green shards.

“This is where your Guardians keep the records of their adventures,” she said, looking up at the mural, “It is where the tales of their conquests are told and immortalized in glass, color, and light.”

Jack frowned and looked up at the mural she was in front of. He was startled to realize the windows were not just random shards – they were the Guardians. The one Nature stood before depicted Tooth and her fairies, and all around him he could finally make out the others in the colorful windows in their signature colors. Sandy, with round shaped and glass the color of gold and honey. Bunny, with his triangular shapes and lavender, green, and milky white shards. North, mighty in his boxy shards and bright reds, greens, and shocks of white. And Jack…

“I…I’m here too…?” he said in awe.

The pentagon windows of blues and whites depicted his own gangly form with snowflakes, staff, and icy scenery. There was only perhaps three of his windows, and all were towards the top-center of the dome…

“Yes, even you are here…” Nature suddenly said, sounding spiteful, “A pity really, because it only proves how far you have fallen in with them.”

Jack frowned. “You mean how I’ve actually made _friends?_ Actually found somewhere where I _belong?_ ” he asked sharply before he could stop himself.

“And there you go again…” Nature sighed, curling her fingers. Claws seemed to sprout from her fingertips, and scratch noisily along Tooth’s mural – across her face. “You need to control your emotions more.”

Jack’s teeth audibly gritted, but he did not say anything this time. Rather, though he was upset, he was curious as well. All these murals depicted the Guardians’ story, Nature said. But he did not recognize any of them, or some of the other people in them. But further up, he recognized their latest battle of the Nightmare War. Even Pitch had a mural. It was angular, almost coffin shaped, and colored in only dusky black, dull greys, and dim white not unlike Pitch’s skin. He looked so angular and sharp, like his very shape could cut through the hardest steel. He was terrifying, surrounded by racing, phantasm horses and screaming faces. His window seemed to be the least taken care of, many cracks and a few loose shards hanging off of it like a man on a noose.

This was the Guardians’ image of the Boogeyman…

All of his murals were like that – neglected, dull, frightening, easily missed at a glance. And there were so many of them…

“Pitch and the Guardians go a long way back…” Nature said, moving over to the center of the room. She craned her neck back to look up at the glowing murals, her obsidian eyes glowing with the colorful lights.

“How…how far back, exactly?” Jack asked suddenly, “They seem a bit different in some of these windows.”

“As they should be. The Guardians were quite different from what they used to be,” Nature said, eyes narrowing, “People change over the course of time, but sometimes, those changes are not good ones.”

“I don’t…understand,” Jack said, confused.

“I’m not surprised…” Nature lowered her head and turned it slightly towards Jack, her expression critical. “They never told you of their pasts, have they? How they came to be?”

Jack slowly shook his head. He had never asked, and it never occurred to him how it is the others came to be as they are now. It just wasn’t something he actively thought about…

_“We were all someone at one point, Jack.”_ Tooth’s words rang in his head like chiming bells, her words nearly staggering him.

Nature shook her head. “Pity. And you still call them your friends.”

“They are my friends!” Jack snapped, the floor icing around his feet, “We’re the Guardians! We stick together, and they would never hide anything from me! I’ve been at their side for-”

“Fifty years,” Nature cut in, unperturbed by Jack’s outrage, “That is but a mere blink by spirit standards. You know them as well as a child would know a complete stranger.”

Jack could feel his icy temper rising, but once more, something was subduing it, containing it. Like there was a leash around his emotions that he just could not break; no matter how much he lunged, bit, and kicked. 

Nature only blinked slowly, turning her head back up to the murals. 

“They were once such simple things, with lives of their own, ambitions and goals and places they longed for,” she said, “But all that changed when the Man in the Moon got involved…”

Jack followed her gaze upwards, and noticed that the center window at the very top of the dome was the Moon itself. Speckled with silver, light blues, and a foggy white. He and the other Guardians surrounded their Moon, vanquishing the dusky windows of Pitch’s army from all sides. But there was also something else, something that made Jack frown in curiosity as he cocked his head.

Aside from him and the other four Guardians, there were three more windows around the Moon, completing the circle. One was spotted with cream and yellow shards, boasting what appeared to be a girl and a giant goose. The next one was in various red and white colors, depicting an old man with a beard. And the last, Jack had to blink and wonder to himself.

The mural was in his near identical image. All whites, blues, and a gangly boy with a staff. But it was different. In place of snowflakes were stars, and the staff had a pointed end – like a crystal was tied to it. He blinked owlishly, wondering if it was a duplicate of his own.

“It is not you,” Nature suddenly said, catching Jack’s attention with a start, “That is but a flicker of the past, long lost and consumed by Time’s endless abyss.” 

Jack frowned, wondering what she meant. But she didn’t bother elaborating. Instead, she crossed her arms over her chest and surveyed the murals with a blank expression – the first non-hostile look Jack has seen from her. It was eerie.

"Have you ever wondered about those pictures and stories the humans put up on stone walls?" she asked suddenly, "The drawings of man slaying beasts, monsters, and demons?”

Jack frowned, not fully understanding. But never the less, he shook his head. He’s seen plenty of the classic ‘caveman’ drawings, and other murals carved or drawn by ancient civilizations. He would be curious about them only for a moment, before moving on – a lot of the drawings were in warmer climates to begin with.

“You must think, how bold these humans were, defeating such beasts. But did you ever wonder, why?” she asked, her eyes never leaving the closest mural of the Boogeyman, “Why did those monsters attack? Why are there so few? Why do the humans attack them? What did they do to deserve such aggression?”

_‘What did he ever do to deserve deaf ears and blind eyes?’_ the voice asked. Jack shuddered, suddenly very much uncomfortable. 

Nature shook her head. “It's always about the heroes and heroines. The villain always loses, and is forgotten with the passage of Time…”

She suddenly turned to Jack, her eyes narrow and her lips pulled into a thin line. Jack felt his jaw clench and his hands tighten on his staff. Those black eyes seemed to bore right into his soul, tear open and dissect every barrier he meticulously built over the centuries and hid his emotions and wounds behind. That gaze was cutting, frightening… _familiar._

“I…I never thought of those things,” he said carefully, “It all happened before me – even before I was human. It just…never seemed to be a concern of mine.”

“And yet, when trouble brewed for them, the Guardians summon you after 300 years of solitude, and you _make_ it your business,” Nature said flatly, “Desperation breeds denial and awakens animal instinct. And even that is short-lived.”

He flinched, suddenly unbalanced. Jack clumsily planted the end of his staff into the floor, as if to use it as a crutch rather than a weapon. This definitely wasn’t the first time the subject of his sudden joining of the Guardians came up. Hal has more than once hinted at the concept, but only fully brought it up once. And Jack never had a better answer above, “So I could save the kids.” 

_‘But was that really the reason?’_ the voice asked. 

Nature blinked slowly, cat-like, before she turned her gaze back to the murals – this time to the cluster of Guardians in assembly.

"Pitch to you is what a wolf is to a human. They are carnivorous beasts that kill the livestock that graze what was once their land. And they are hunted and killed for it, when they are only trying to survive and put food in their pup’s bellies,” she said, “Pitch was a starving wolf, the children the sheep, and you Guardians the hunters…and instead of showing even a shred of mercy, you do not end his suffering. Instead you lock him up in a pit like a pitiful zoo attraction.

"But can you truly blame a wolf for wanting to survive? Can you even blame them for their predestined choice in food? Will you openly blame someone for something they had no choice in? Are you truly so cruel?!" 

Jack felt frozen to the spot, the sudden silence deafening. Nature was openly glowering at him, her dress alive with deadly insects and poisonous plants. Veins pulsed and rose off her skin around her neck, forehead, and wrists, her anger pumping through the agitated vessels. Vines crept out from beneath her dress, decorated with sharp barbs and dripping poison. And yet, she did not move to attack. Jack wasn’t even sure if he would find it in him to move if she did.

But instead, she calmed. Her shoulders, once squared, sagged and her tight fists loosened. The vines and bugs retreated, some seemingly vanishing into thin air, while others scuttled into the folds of her dress and bodice. 

She looked so tired – so ancient.

"Tell me…what animal do you think of when you think of Pitch?" she asked. Jack was startled to hear how…hopeless she sounded. How utterly drained – almost _hurt_ – she sounded. 

He swallowed. He felt put on the spot. How was he supposed to answer that without sounding offensive or prejudice? He honestly had no idea what he could say – but he knew one thing. Lying would only make Nature mad. And he may not know her well, but he knew she would tell if he was lying. She and Time seemed to have this uncanny ability to see through fronts and barriers – it unsettled Jack.

“I…I don't know…maybe a wolf like you said. Or a panther, or maybe a shark….?" Jack offered lamely. He had to wonder what Nature thought of when she thought of Pitch…

_“Why don’t ye ask?”_ Patrick’s words echoed in his head once again, startling Jack into compulsively opening his mouth.

“What do you think of when you think of him?” he blurted. 

He suddenly expected to be reprimanded, or even attacked for his bluntness, and he prepared himself for any form of retaliation. But Nature did not move. Rather, her eyes grew hazy and distant; like she was remembering a far off dream from long ago. Her expression was forlorn, lost almost. She turned away from Jack, clasping her hands in front of herself.

“A butterfly…” she said, so softly Jack had to question if he heard her or not, "A butterfly with only one wing…"

Jack blinked, suddenly lost. Well that was a rather…sad mental image. A butterfly with only one wing. How did that make any sense? And a butterfly? Pitch looked willowy and seemed rather twig-like to the naked eye – but he was a dangerous man. He wasn’t frail or fragile like a butterfly.

Nature, seemingly sensing his thoughts, sighed and shook her head.

“You should not underestimate even the smallest creature, Jack. A lot of butterflies are poisonous; some can even sleep through your frost and fly off unscathed,” she said. Her hands clenched suddenly, and she sneered openly at the Guardians’ murals, “They can suck up too much nectar from flowers and kill them. One may be beautiful, but a swarm can be a nuisance – dangerous even.”

Carefully, as if afraid it would shatter, she placed a hand on one of Pitch’s murals. She traced the edges of his sharp arms and angular head. Her hand trembled briefly. 

“Pitch is…was…a butterfly unable to fly, but clawed his way from flower to flower, sapping them dry, as a reminder to others. He had but one wing…but that wing was torn from him too, making him but a lowly, flightless insect."

She suddenly veered on Jack, looming over him. He startled and started backing away, but Nature followed him with calm, even steps – but her face conveyed otherwise.

"Your Tsar is a fool, a thief, a naive child. And like the cruel, thoughtless child he is, he tore Pitch's last wing off with your hands. Just like his parents before him."

_CRACK!_

Jack’s eyes screwed shut at the sound, his back pressed into a wall with Nature crowding him. His heart was racing, and his breath was shallow and shaky. He felt like he was being suffocated – Nature’s scent, like cut grass, the spray of the ocean, the damp earthy smell of the ground after rain…the smell of animal blood, of rotting wood, that smell of decaying bodies…

Slowly, Jack opened his eyes. Nature’s right hand was plunged into the glass by the side of his head, narrowly missing him altogether. Her face was one of anger and rage, her nose wrinkled in disgust like she was smelling something foul. Her other hand was pulled back, claws grown and ready to strike out. Jack felt the blood drain from his face, waiting for the killing blow…

It never came.

Nature’s face suddenly went blank, and her tense body released like a tightly drawn bow. Slowly, she pulled her hand from the broken glass. Her forearm and hand was covered in the colorful shards, but she showed no sign of pain; she wasn’t even bleeding. He watched in gruesome awe as, with the twitch of a finger, the shards were pushed from her skin, and the cuts were healed instantly. The glass tinkled pleasantly as the shards dropped to the floor, each one surrounding Jack’s bare feet and the drag of Nature’s dress. 

Once the shards were gone, she flexed her fingers and balled her hand into a fist, dropping it at her side. She stood over Jack, her gaze nothing but belittling; he was oddly reminded of someone looking down upon a bug squished under their new shoes.

“You are like the Tsar,” she said calmly, “Childish, naïve, thoughtless, and reckless. There is a fine line between innocence and ignorance – and you somehow managed to blur and partly erase it, _Guardian of Fun._ ”

She suddenly turned and glided for the door, leaving Jack leaning into the wall with wide, frightened eyes. Nature rested a hand upon the handle of the double doors, not turning to look at Jack.

“Know this, Frost, that there are consequences to eliminating those who are needed,” she said, “Breaking that cycle that keeps this world spinning…you and your fellow Guardians have damned a whole world.”

Without another word, she stepped out into the hall, and clicked the doors shut behind her, leaving Jack to the broken glass and the empty room.

It took a full ten minutes before Jack was able to move, let alone breathe normally. And when he did, he slid down to the floor, his feet pushing the broken glass away as he landed on his rear and lowered his head. He looked like a discarded ragdoll, thrown carelessly to the corner by an uncaring child. 

_‘Is this how Pitch felt?’_ he wondered, _‘This feeling of defeat? Of hurt and helplessness?’_

_‘Who can say but the Nightmare King himself?’_ the voice said, _‘I am sure he felt plenty of things – none of which were of joy or happiness.’_

Jack closed his eyes, drawing his knees up. He hugged them to his chest and lowered his head onto the knobby caps, his frame starting to shake.

_‘I don’t understand…I don’t understand…!’_ he thought hysterically, _‘All these things, these murals, what she said, the Moon…I don’t know about any of them!’_

There was no response from the voice or anyone. The silence reigned, pressing and shoving into Jack’s very bones. It was so heavy, he felt he would crush himself if he didn’t hear _something_ break through it.

_‘Then you should ask…’_ the voice said – it almost sounded sympathetic. 

Jack sobbed suddenly, his heart aching.

Above him, his own mural was shattered. His image was spider-webbed with cracks and missing shards – and at his center, his heart, a black hole was plunged into the chest…

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes. 
> 
> 1.) I imagine Jack has a room for himself at North's Workshop. In fact, I kind of imagine all the Guardians have their own rooms in North's home. He seems like the hospitable type. Plus, it's not currently known if Jack has his own lair (at least it's unknown to me, correct me if I'm wrong) and the North Pole seems like his kind of environment. Prior to the clusterfuck, Jack stayed in Burgess from late fall through winter, then might move on to the colder regions of the world, with many stops at North's place to relax and recharge if you will.
> 
> 2.) A head canon of mine, and of many others I noticed -spirits heal ridiculously fast. However, depending on the injury, how long the injury is being inflicted, and the weapon used, it can scar or hinder the healing process. Say if a vampire is cut with a silver blade, it is likely to form a mild scar, and take much longer to heal. Or if a spirit is injured with just a normal weapon, it will heal in a couple days, so long as the injury has not been re-opened or given more trauma. However, the one injury that takes the longest to heal, and is guaranteed to scar, are self-inflicted injuries. Spirits who hurt themselves on purpose heal, but it can take weeks for a simple cut to heal, and even then it WILL scar. There is currently no known medicine that can prevent the scarring of a self-inflicted injury to a spirit. On a side-note, some spirits are naturally born with scars as a part of their character, and those are perfectly fine to other spirits - however, self-inflicted scars are like a label. Spirits can automatically TELL if a scar was the result of a self-injury.
> 
> 3.) This is a form of ancient torture. Sadly I could not find its name, but in the most basic sense, once laid lad flat and spread eagle upon a wooden surface. They are strapped down of course, usually around the torso and around the arms and wrists. Sometimes for security, the torturer will use crucification on the hands to keep them still. Afterwards, the fingers are spread and nails are nailed into each and every finger joint. This is also applied to the toes/feet, and even the joints of arms and legs with larger nails, even wedge chisels. 
> 
> 4.) I vaguely recall in the books that the Guardians did in fact have a sort of mental connection to one another. Not enough to be considered ESP or full mind-reading, but more like very low-key mental pings. In this case, Sandy is able to deduce their activities and conditions, as well as their moods. But outside that, I'd imagine their 'pings' are more used as a means to ask if everything is alright, or as a kind of reassuring signal to say 'I'm okay'. Sandy is shown to have much stronger mentally abilities in the books though, as he communicated through mental projection of his thoughts and words. 
> 
> 5.) As you may recall in the previous chapter, Tooth was thrown back first into a wall and rendered unconscious. The result was a sprained wing, hence the bandages.
> 
> 6.) Bunny states in the movie that he is six foot one - Patrick here, being a head taller than Bunny, is about six foot six. He's big. But also a softy. Lol
> 
> 7.) Just to clarify, Patrick is thinking of the rumor/event in which Jack supposedly traded Baby-Tooth for his tooth box, when in reality, he had been tricked and played by Pitch before being spat out of his lair to confront the Guardians. This of course did not end well for anyone. 
> 
> 8.) Using a wooden door to shield yourself from Mother Nature is, on the whole, not exactly the best idea.
> 
> ~S~


	10. A Nightmare

He wasn’t sure just how long it had been – he only knew he had spent the majority of his time in the mural room just crying. And yet, he found some cynical irony. They say when you cry, pour out all your hurt and pain, you feel better both emotionally and physically. Jack could laugh if he wasn’t so exhausted and drained. Whoever said crying was the ultimate method of healing, should have their eyes gouged out.

He did not feel any better; if anything, he felt worse. He was exhausted and pained, his body protesting each and every movement he made. His eyes hurt and his head was throbbing, like a violent game of dodge ball was going on in it. He was so tired, his eyes puffy and refusing to open further than their half closed state.

He wanted to sleep.

But no, this was not an option. He had to get up, move, and _do something_. Though what, he was unsure. Perhaps now would be a good time to talk to the Guardians. That is, if they would even give him a straight answer. It seemed now that such a problem had arose, they keep brushing his questions and confusion off, trying to play off the whole ordeal as something easily fixed. They were Guardians, North said; they would fix this in no time, was what he implied. 

_‘But will it truly be alright in the end?’_ the voice asked, _‘Even if you fix this overnight, what then? How will the rest of the spirit world see you and the Guardians then? How will you ever be seen as anything but a monster after this?’_

Jack didn’t give the voice an answer – he didn’t have one. Instead, he sighed shakily and rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes, pushing some of his ice into his palms to bring down the heated puffiness. The redness was mostly reduced, but if he were anywhere near a mirror, he would not have left the room the way he was looking. 

The dark, lonely hallway he trudged through to reach the main building seemed longer than it used to be. Like an extra mile was added on, and he simply wasn’t getting anywhere. He felt like a prodigal traveler trekking through a desert. His legs felt tight and sluggish as they shuffled through thick sand, a destination unseen and a distance in its way at all times. The further he moved forward, the further back he seemed to go. His body ached, and he just wanted to stop and collapse.

_‘You are not allowed to feel so pained, sprite,’_ the voice said, _‘What do you know of pain?’_

Enough, he wanted to snap back. But even he knew he had never felt as much pain as some others may have. He was only three hundred and fifty years old. He was just a child compared to the other spirits. The most childish looking spirit could be wiser than him, and look down their nose at him for how tiny he was compared to them. 

Jack stopped in his mindless trek, shoulders shaking as a familiar burn rose into his eyes again. He cringed and shook his head. No, no more crying. He couldn’t be selfish anymore. He had to know what was going on – what was _really_ going on, and face the Guardians. And if he wasn’t going to get answers from them, worse come to worst, he’ll talk to Nature. Or maybe Hal or Patrick…

Jack’s thoughts were broken from their wandering state when a soft orange glow caught his attention. He hadn’t even realized he had reached the central room that split off into another hall, and held two doors. One of which had the faint glow of a dim fire spilling out from under it. He could hear voices behind it – one low yet strained, the other husky and with an accented timbre. The door was slightly cracked open, and Jack couldn’t stop himself from huddling against the crack to see who was inside.

It was Patrick and Hal. The Homunculus was perched on a large armchair that seemed far too big for his thin frame, with Patrick kneeling down to him on one knee and a large hand on Hal’s knee. Hal was lurched forward, face buried in his large hands. He was crying.

“Lad, ye can’t do this to yerself…” Patrick said softly.

Hal sobbed, his voice choked. “This shouldn't have happened…! This should not have _happened!_ ” 

Patrick shook his head, gripping Hal’s knee a bit harder. “Hal, lad…there wouldn't have been anythin' ye could have done fer ‘im.”

“I could have gotten to him sooner!” Hal shouted, raising his head from his hands. His cheeks were tinged an amber color, his tears equally a bright color of the sunset, “If I...! If I hadn't stayed away...! If I hadn't have listened to him...!”

He broke off, shuddering. Hal suddenly lurched and put his face back into his hands, gasping brokenly, fighting for a breath of relief that would not come. “It’s all our fault…!”

“Ah, doll…” Patrick got down on both knees and embraced the Homunculus, squeezing him tight to his broad chest. He let the other sob quietly into his neck, his soft red hair tickling against his chin as he rubbed his back. 

“Ye and the others are not at fault for this,” he said firmly, but softly, “Ye were told to stay away for a reason. If ye had gone to see ‘im, ye could have gotten mixed up in this mess too.”

“But I-”

“Obeyed yer King…” Patrick said with a tone of finality. He released Hal and held his shoulders with bent elbows. Taking out a handkerchief, he wiped the amber tears* from Hal’s face, mumbling how it was going to stain. He put the soaked cloth away and held Hal’s face between his large hands, making the smaller spirit look at him.

“Ye obeyed yer King, doll. There ain't nothin' wrong with tha',” he said – his tone was firm and left no room for arguments, and yet he still managed to sound comforting, “And magic or no, ye couldn't 'ave broken that seal. Yer no witch.”

His last words seemed to strike a chord in Hal, as his eyes suddenly widened, the orange disk of his irises nearly swallowing white pupils. Jack almost gasped when a large clawed hand swiped out and cut across Patrick’s cheek, leaving three long and bleeding gashes in its wake. Patrick, his head veered to one side from the impact, made no move to retaliate. He held perfectly still as Hal slowly, almost hesitantly, withdrew his hand and clenched it in a fist that he held against his belly*. 

It was silent for a long moment. No sound or motion was made. Not even so much as a turn of the head was seen. The only movement came from the still going fire, its flames dim and shrinking with its lack of kindle. The two spirits were statuesque. 

But finally, when Jack felt like he was going to burst from the silence, Hal’s head lowered and dropped to his chest, his hat obscuring his face. He slumped into the chair, seemingly exhausted.

Patrick suddenly smiled wryly, using his sleeve to wipe the blood from his face. He barely winced when his hand brushed over the fresh scratches.

“Feel better?” he asked.

“I hate you…” Hal rasped. Patrick only chuckled lowly.

“No ye don’t…” he said, trying to locate a spare handkerchief for himself. He looked up when Hal held out his own to him, and he took it gratefully. 

“Ye really aren’t at fault here, Hal,” he said, pressing the cloth to his wounds, “None except you, her, and now the Guardians knew where he was at. Ye found ‘im by accident in that ancient city, long when ye all thought it gone and lost.”

Jack frowned. Ancient city? Did they mean Pitch’s lair? 

“We could have done something…” Hal muttered.

“No, ye couldn’t ‘ave. Ye all stop doing what yer doin’, ye all suffer,” Patrick said, “Us ordinary spirits, the humans, the Guardians, even ‘im…”

A small, tired smile broke Hal’s black lips. “You’re anything but ordinary, Pat.”

A humored chuckle. “Aye, that I am, doll.”

“I hate it when you call me that…”

“Then stop calling me ‘Patty’ an’ we’ll call it even.”

“Not a chance, _Patty_.”

The room filled with exhausted chuckles then, but they no sooner calmed and lunged back into silence. The crackling of the fire was nearly deafening, despite its low glow and weak burn. Jack felt his lips thin as he peered further around the door, eyes wide in fascination. 

Patrick pressed the cloth into his wound one more time before setting the bloodied handkerchief aside. The scratches were still prominent, red and angry against his stubble-ridden skin. He reached up and hooked a finger under Hal’s chin, raising it up to look at him.

“I mean it lad, ye cannot do this right now,” he said firmly, “Pitch needs ye now, and dwellin’ on the what ifs won’t do that for ‘im. Ye need to be strong.”

“I know that…”

“I don’t think ye do, doll,” Patrick said. He suddenly got up, standing to his full, intimidating height, and crossed his arms. He looked down at Hal with his intense green eyes and squared his shoulders, “What did ye master teach ye?”

Hal shut his eyes, as if remembering. “Nothing ever stays the same…”

“Aye. And why?”

“Because no matter how much we may fight it, transcendence and change are inevitable – like the changing of the seasons.”

“Aye. And yer the Spirit of Transcendence, the one we go to when change is afoot and when things must move on and be put to rest.” Patrick took a cigar from his jacket pocket, popping it into his mouth before lighting it. A puff of smoke wafted through the air as the glowing tip was burned, and he removed it briefly to speak.

“Samhain taught ye well. He taught ye to never regret yer actions. So don’t ye start now, or I’ll take that gourd head of yours and shove it in a meat grinder,” he said.

Hal smiled, despite the rather empty threat. He nodded and stood up, though on shaky feet. Patrick grabbed a narrow shoulder before he could topple back into the chair. Muttering an apology, he soon regained his bearings and wiped the remaining tears from his eyes and face. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm and will away the heated flush on his cheeks. 

“Thank you, Patrick,” he said softly. The Leprechaun grunted and gave the Homunculus’ shoulder a hard pat.

“Aye, don’t mention it, or mah reputation will be in the shit-hole,” he grumbled. Hal chuckled.

“You mean your reputation as nothing but a big, green teddy bear?”

“Oi, don’tcha start ye pest,” Patrick threatened, pointing his cigar at Hal

The Homunculus only laughed and smiled at his friend, shaking his head. The Leprechaun nodded and turned to take his leave, prompting Jack into nearly fleeing. But he stopped when Hal’s voice spoke out again.

“Pat…?”

Jack and Patrick stopped in their tracks, the Leprechaun mere inches from the door, and Jack a mere breath away from the large man.

Patrick looked back at Hal. “Aye?”

Hal shuffled his feet slightly, claws clenching and unclenching. He refused to meet Patrick’s gaze, his focus completely on the dying embers of the fire. 

“Do you…master taught me that anything could be changed,” he started, “Do…do you think that includes the past? Can the past be changed?”

Jack heard Patrick sigh, more sadly than anything. Though he couldn’t see it, the Leprechaun lumbered back for the Homunculus and engulfed him in a bear hug.

“Ye ain’t Time, doll,” he said softly, “I can’t answer that. That’s something to ask him – and I really hope ye don’t. But if it’s anythin’ I know about the man, it’s that no matter the tragedy, he would never change anythin’…”

Hal nodded reluctantly, letting the other hold him up from a near emotional collapse. He vaguely noted the Leprechaun smelled like dewy grass and spicy cigar tobacco. He could faintly pick up the lingering scent of Brandy as well. By the end of the week, the new jacket he wore would absolutely reek of the drink. But for now, he could savor the comforting scent the other man carried underneath the alcoholic cloud that seemed to forever follow him.

Releasing the smaller spirit, Patrick looked down at the Homunculus and squeezed his shoulders.

“I’ll be right here for ye, lad. Don’t ever forget tha’, got it?” he said.

Hal nodded, smiling tiredly. “Got it…”

“Good.” Patting his shoulder one last time, Patrick departed for the door. Opening it and stepping through the threshold, he frowned and looked around the dimly lit hallway.

No one was there.

****

**

~s~S~s~

**

****

Jack’s shuffling strides were barely audible through the hall in which he trekked. The silence of the wooden cavern was deafening. Yet even the silence was not nearly as loud as his own thoughts. His mind buzzed and howled with uncontrollable thoughts he could not pin down and think about. It was like his brain had turned into a beehive; nothing was still, he could not focus on one thing at a time. He wanted to scream from the sheer frustration of it all. 

He had _never_ seen or heard Hal cry before. It tore his already cracked heart in two. He could hear his friend’s sobs clearly in his mind, echoing like he were somewhere far off down a cavern. It just was not _right_ for the Homunculus to cry; tears had no more a right in his eyes than a frown did on Harley’s face.

Where was Harley anyways, a part of him asked. Was he alright? Was he just as ill as some of the other spirits? Or perhaps just as angry? 

He had no answers to any of the questions buzzing in his head. He wanted to dash his head over a rock and crack it open, just so at least some of these thoughts could leak out and give him just a speck of peace. 

_‘You simply cannot come up with a solution that won’t benefit you…’_ the voice sighed, _‘You are so selfish.’_

Jack cringed, wanting to scream at the voice in his head. But that would not only be ridiculous, but only prove how mad he had become. And he was certain he had gone mad. What if one of the Elves heard him? Or a Yeti? Or worse, one of the Guardians…

_‘The Guardians…’_ It was like a moment of déjà vu. He had only ever spat that word during his three hundred years of friendless traveling, chasing the cold seasons from one corner of the earth to the next.

What had happened to us, he wondered. Everything was nearly perfect not even a day ago. And yet somehow, with the single passing of a few hours, their – _his_ – whole world had been turned right on its head. Nothing was the same – just like Hal said. Everything had _changed_. And it wasn’t even for the better.

_“Can the past be changed?”_ He had asked Patrick. Jack wondered the same thing now.

_‘What exactly would you change if you could change the past?’_ the voice asked.

_‘I…I don’t know…’_ Jack thought, _‘Maybe I wouldn’t accept that Guardianship. Maybe I’d just stay away from them. Or maybe I’d go to others not associated with the Moon…’_

A pause, and Jack wondered if the voice had left him. But no, it was never that simple.

_‘You are so selfish…’_ Disappointment. 

Jack made to reply, but at the moment he had stepped out into the meeting area facing the globe. The Guardians were all sat upon overstuffed chairs and nursing lukewarm drinks, oblivious to his arrival. He looked up, and for a moment felt saddened, yet slightly glad he was not alone in this melancholy fog.

But then, anger. He felt _angry_. He felt _betrayed_ , he felt like a god damned _fool_ and it was _all their fault!_

“What have you all been keeping from me?” he suddenly asked, ice coating each syllable. 

Startled, the Guardians’ heads shot up and looked at Jack, their eyes wide with surprise. North got up, setting his tankard aside – eggnog, and Jack suspected it held quite a bit of alcohol in it.

“Jack, glad you could join us to-”

“What are you not telling me?” Jack cut in, hand tightening around his staff, “Better yet, _why_ have you been keeping it from me?”

Bunny sighed, frowning at Jack from his own seat. “Mate, this ain’t the time to-”

“Then when is?!” Jack shouted, startling everyone further. Ice crept under his feet in a wide circle around him, his hands shaking and jaw tightening. 

“When is the right time, huh? When is it the right time to tell poor, naïve Jack anything?!” he snapped, causing the others to flinch, “Why have you never told me how deep this all ran?! Why did you never tell me more about Pitch?! Time said you knew about his past. What happened in the past that was so terrible that you just could not tell me?!”

Either it was the mention of the temporal man’s name, or the reminder of Pitch’s past, Jack did not know, but it made the others wince and look away. Jack felt his breathing becoming heavier and shallow. He wanted so badly to…do _something!_ Destroy something, break something, he just wanted _relief_ from this _thing_ in his chest that was eating away at his heart and sanity. And somehow, he knew the others had the key to this, but he just could not get it out of them. 

“Tell me…!” he rasped, shaking, “What don’t I know? What do I need to know? What did we _really do_ to the world?”

No one answered. No one _could_ answer. What could they possibly say? And more than that, no one even wanted to answer. The Guardians each just looked to one another almost pleadingly, mentally asking the other to say something. But their pleas to one another were empty and useless, and Jack could feel his icy blood boiling. 

“Why are you guys not saying anything?” he rasped, his frame shaking with repressed anger. But again, no answer was forthcoming. He would only gain mournful looks and wordless silence. 

It only made the frost sprite angrier.

Clenching his staff to nearly the point of breaking, he pointed the hook at them threateningly, causing a couple of them to flinch.

“No, you all don’t get to do this to me – not again,” he growled, his staff shaking, “You all don’t get to ignore me and pretend everything’s okay when it’s clearly not! So talk! What exactly are we doing to the world?!”

“Jack…” North started, voice oddly low, and his expression pleading, “We cannot speak of this now, it is not right time.”

Jack’s hearing was struck by a loud ringing then at the man’s words. Numbness overcame his body, as if his ice powers had rebound and froze him stiff to the spot. Not the right time, he said. Could not speak of it now, he said. 

That one comment seemed to drain Jack of everything he had – his will, his drive, his god damned _sanity_ ; he just wanted everything to _stop_.

But before he could open his mouth…

“If you are quite done screaming…” Jack startled and turned to the source of the voice, tensing as Mother Nature entered the room. She looked at each of the Guardians in turn, her expression cold and accusing. It was like she was trying to physically harm them with just a gaze alone, and it seemed to work to a degree.

Jack felt his bound wrist throb as her gaze settled on him, and he nearly buckled under the stare and the shock of pain. But like the others, he held his ground and lowered his eyes, hoping the show of submission would deter her. 

Whether it did or not was a mystery, but she eventually cancelled out the bracelets’ connection and spoke.

“Hal is now ready to look into Pitch’s mind,” she said, “You will all be there, with no exception or excuse. Am I clear?”

Muttered affirmatives were given, each of the Guardians displaying their own anxieties and fears for the situation. Without another word, Nature turned on her heels and made her way to what they could only guess was Pitch’s room. They highly doubted he was going to be moved right now for any reason barring Nature’s command. 

It was quiet in the lounge room for what felt like the longest moment, but was soon broken when North sighed and rubbed his forehead.

“You heard her, let us be moving…” he grunted.

Nodding, the others got up and made their way for the door. Tooth and Sandy threw Jack sympathizing looks – which he returned with a scowl that would make Patrick all too proud. The two cringed and quickly floated off, while Bunny only gave him a brief glance and lumbered after them. 

Jack felt himself drain of his energy, exhausted once again. But it was when a large hand landed on his shoulder did he feel it all come crashing back all at once. His brain screamed _Disliber_ at him, and he swiftly turned with his staff pointed at the Devil’s face.

Only, it wasn’t the Jersey Devil, but North. He seemed briefly surprised by the invasion of Jack’s weapon in his face, but quickly calmed and sighed through his nose.

“You are upset,” he said. A statement; he didn’t need to ask if or why Jack was upset. 

Though caught off guard, Jack only growled in frustration and pulled his staff back, not even bothering to look at North. He looked like he was about to say something, but then scoffed and turned away, shuffling for the door.

“Jack, wait…” North called softly. 

Jack made no reply. His brain was in a rush, going a million miles a minute as it screamed _ignore ignore ignore no more stop no more hurting_. He was not going to listen to another excuse. He had to get out of there now and-

_‘Coward…’_

He stopped. And then he turned and faced North, his eyes focused on some point just below the Russian man’s eyes. He wanted to outright _scream_.

Shoulders sagging, North approached Jack, but made no move to touch him again – a wise choice in Jack’s opinion. 

“Jack…” he started in that still soft, almost pleading tone.

_‘Get on with it…’_ Jack thought. 

“Jack, we are not meaning to hurt you,” he started.

“Yeah, well you should try a bit harder,” Jack snapped. North sighed, his cookie-laden breath ghosting Jack’s hair.

“Yes, I suppose we should…” he said, “We are not used to this; being like family. We are more accustomed to being by ourselves, working, fulfilling purpose.”

“So anyone without a purpose – or someone with one you don’t like – should be ignored and kept in the dark.”

“Jack, no!” North suddenly bellowed, startling the frost sprite. He looked up with wide eyes at North, who was frowning down at him sadly. He calmed slightly, expression hurt. Jack almost felt guilty.

“Is this truly what you think of us?” North asked. 

Jack did not answer, so North moved on.

“We never told you some of these things about ourselves because…it seems like we ourselves have forgotten about it,” he said, “We have moved on, and there just seemed to be no reason to talk about it.”

“But there is now, isn’t there?” Jack muttered. North shook his head.

“No, we…” he sighed, “Jack, this is not easy. Things in past happen, and they cannot be changed. We cannot afford to dwell on them, we have children and more important things to worry about! It is…unfortunate that our actions have caused such a mess, but we will fix it. We are-”

“North…” Jack cut in, scowling at the floor, “If you say ‘we are Guardians’, I swear to god, I will freeze your mouth shut.” He brushed North off and turned to walk away.

North did not call the sprite back, but nor did he feel like he shouldn’t do something. In the end, he could only watch Jack’s retreating back vanish through the door and down the hall. And all he could think, all alone in the vacant room, the looming globe staring him down almost accusingly, was, _what have we done?_

****

**

~s~S~s~

**

****

It felt like he was attending a funeral – a funeral for someone he didn’t even know. He felt like he was intruding, like that one person no one wanted to be around, and yet had simply invited himself because he had nothing better to do. The room was so dimly lit, only a small cluster of candles lit upon the nightstand by the bed. 

The casting of light, the grim atmosphere with the Guardians and Nature around the bed, Patrick by the door like a bouncer to a club, and Pitch… he looked dead. It really did feel like a funeral. 

He was supposedly asleep, or perhaps in a coma, but Jack could not help but wonder if Pitch was even still alive anymore. He looked so fragile and thin from what he once remembered, the bed virtually dwarfing his thin frame. It actually looked like he could easily snap his neck with any wrong turn of the head – it scared Jack, just how far the Boogeyman had visibly fallen.

Hal was in the back of the room, poring over a desk with an open book on it. Jack had taken a peek to see what was in it, but all he could tell was that it was written in a different language and boasted many symbols he could not identify. Hal’s cat-like eyes penetrated the dark of the room and swerved over the pages, his only real light source being the ever-burning Jack-o-lantern hanging from his broom. The orange-sized pumpkin seemed to spit out bursts of various colors – from red, to yellow, to green, to blue, and even purple. Its flame was a plethora of color, and something Jack never fully understood*. 

“Do ye know what he’s doin’?” Jack startled at the gruff whisper, turning to see Patrick focused fully on the motionless Boogeyman in the bed. He shook his head.

“I…only got that he’s somehow able to look into people’s minds?” he whispered. The room was so deathly still and thick with tension, he felt like he _had_ to whisper. 

Patrick shook his head. “No. Hal can’t look into somethin’ as fickle as the mind, but the very _soul_. When still in the body, he needs a bit of preparation time, otherwise dealin’ with souls is easy for ‘im.”

Jack frowned, not understanding. Patrick continued.

“The soul is like a shadow, a reflection of one’s emotions and mental state,” Patrick explained, “Dependin’ on how bad the damage is mentally and emotionally, it will reflect itself to Hal and show him just how hurt it is. He will feel _everything_ Pitch is feeling now for but a split second*.”

Jack’s head veered to Hal. The Homunculus seemed to have not heard Jack or Patrick, and only focused intently on his book. His foot was jangling erratically by the desk chair leg, his breathing even. Yet somehow, Jack knew he was nervous – maybe even scared. Who knew what he was going to see inside a man like Pitch? What would he even see in the state he was now? Everything – the torture, the pain, the loneliness…he was going to feel it all for the tiniest moment.

Would that be too long, even for him…?

Hal suddenly snapped the book shut and turned to the others, broom in hand. Nature regarded him coolly.

“Are we ready?” she asked softly, yet with an air of stoic urgency. 

Hal only nodded, and stepped up to Pitch’s bedside. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a stick of charcoal. They faintly heard him mutter a silent pardon as he gently moved the blanket down from Pitch’s chin to his waist. He was completely bare under the blankets aside from some soft trousers Nature procured from North. No scars were prominent on the Boogeyman’s torso, the bandages having been removed. It was as if he had never been hurt – spirits healed so fast, it was amazing how a whole fifty years’ worth of damage could just be erased from the physical body. 

The only thing left behind was a small, almost insignificant scar running from his sternum up to his left breast. It was barely two inches long. And yet, any scar on a spirit was worrisome. Very few things could cause a spirit to scar – one being self-harm. 

Hal seemed to examine Pitch, gently running a thumb over the Boogeyman’s brow. His lips thinned, and a shudder climbed up his spine; he looked pained. Breathing through his nose, the Homunculus took out the charcoal and reached over to Pitch’s chest. Carefully, he drew a circle on his breast – over his heart – that was about the size of a child’s fist. Runes were then scribbled meticulously inside and around it. He finished it by drawing what looked to be a keyhole in the circle’s center.

Then he reached up for Pitch’s forehead. He drew yet another circle, this one dollar-coin sized. And inside it, he drew a vertically drawn eye, and a single rune above the circle.

He put the charcoal stick away and stood up straight, looking to the others.

“Please step back,” he said, “I do not know how he will take to having his soul invaded.”

Heeding the warning, everyone stepped back a few paces until their backs nearly touched a wall. Once sure everyone was a safe distance away, Hal picked up his broom and held the Jack-o-lantern over Pitch’s head, and started gently swaying it like a pendulum. 

“Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,” he started an incantation, “When the Light passes before your eyes, may your Mind speak no lies, your Heart be my door, into the Transcendence*.”

The gourd passed two more times over Pitch’s head, before the marks Hal drew on him began to glitter and speckle with orange and red embers. Smoke rose from the areas, and before anyone could voice their concern, everything in Hal’s mind was swallowed in a flash of tainted blackness…

**…**

Screams echoed and reverberated in a skull no more his own, rattling the boney structures of his (not his) body. Pain flared and clawed at his _(not his*)_ body like a trapped animal would a trap. And there, just in his center _(not mine!)_ there was _fear_.

Agony then, as needles pushed and wove through the body of the one his mind invaded. A fiery soul the color of gold and silver, it was being torn asunder. Ages pass in the blink of eyes not his own, and yet no time passes at all. A flash of tainted yellow, cackles and jeers and – _the Guardians are here no please leave me alone don’t hurt me_ – so much pain. 

He felt like he was falling, yet he was being launched into some unknown abyss of monsters the likes of which not even hell would welcome. A voice deeper than his own was ripped from his throat by clawed hands – _no wait I’m screaming why am I screaming why_ – and bones were ground to dust. 

Too much. There was _too much_ going on in this shell – _not a body, this is not a body anymore…!_

Eyes were gouged out and regrown in their sockets, only to be plucked right out again. Guts were spilled as blades cut and danced across the soft flesh of his belly, only to regenerate and repeat the process all over again. Limbs were torn from his torso, then forcibly stitched back in and torn out again. Bones were broken, then knit back together, broken again. His head was dashed on rocks, its contents smeared on walls, but then healed and brought back all for a repeated process again. Again, again, _again, again, again again again again AGAIN AGAIN **AGAIN-**_

Pitch _(no, my name is Hal!)_ tried to scream, tried to plead, to beg and escape, but there was no mercy. Horses spat up from hell itself danced along his body _(not my body…!)_ , while shapeless figures rattled the bars containing his very sanity and mind _(I can’t…!)_. His very soul, his center, that part of him that made him him…it was being violated. _(STOP…!)_

Fear, fear, _fear so much fear (oh god no make it stop) no no no no more stop please, someone, anyone, save me (I can’t) it hurts please (make it stop) anyone please just stop stop stop (help me) pain so much pain stop (STOP-)_

_Stop._

_…_

_…_

_…_

_Silence._

_…_

_…_

_…_

_Drip…_

_…_

_…_

_…_

_Drip…_

_…_

_…_

_…_

_**“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-!”** _

“-AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!”

“Hal! Halistair!” 

Jack pinned himself to the wall, eyes impossibly wide as he watched the horror unfold before him. It all went by so fast – one minute Hal was saying an incantation, Pitch’s marks were burning with embers, and now – now Hal was _screaming_.

Collapsed upon the floor, Hal held his head in a vice-grip, mouth open wide in what had to be the loudest scream of terror and agony Jack has ever heard. He howled and shrieked like a banshee being dismembered alive. Patrick and Nature were by his side, while North had peeked out the door and was barking orders to a Yeti – something about the infirmary and a calming potion. 

“Hal! Halistair Owens calm down!” Patrick yelled, trying to keep the hysterical Homunculus pinned to the floor.

The orange irises were engulfed by blown white pupils, giving the already mad-looking spirit an even madder expression. He only continued to scream uncontrollably, amber tears streaking his face*. He clawed violently at his body, as if he was trying to get something off of him. But in his claws’ wake he left deep gouges and cuts along his body, cutting into his clothing and flesh and leaving streaks of orange-red blood in his wake. 

“Hal! Halistair!” Nature called as well, her hands hovering over his body and glowing green – she was checking to see if anything was wrong with his body.

Patrick cursed suddenly as Hal’s back lurched and his scream rung in his ears. “The spell is reboundin’…!”

“No…” Nature said, shaking her head, “He saw and felt something that led to this. He was thrown out violently in a backlash. He’s having a panic attack.”

A panic attack, Jack thought dumbly. No, he’s seen people have panic attacks, he’s had a few himself in the past too; this was no panic attack. This was pure _madness_ and _fear_. 

A Yeti suddenly burst into the room with a yellowish draught in a bottle in hand. North swore in Russian before taking the bottle and rushing over to Hal, kneeling by him. 

“Here! He must drink this!” he said. 

Without waiting for a reply, North uncorked the bottle and poured the liquid down Hal’s throat, his free hand massaging his throat to make him swallow. And like a switch had been flipped, Hal froze and went still. His body was stiff, his eyes locked on the ceiling above him as his mouth opened in the beginnings of another scream. 

And suddenly, he went limp, his legs and arms flopping to his sides like boneless limbs. His mouth partly closed, but his eyes refused to stray from the ceiling or recede their wide gape. 

Everyone stared. 

Silence descended upon the room once more, but no lights were apparent aside from that spilling in from the hallway through the partly open door. A sudden force during Hal’s incantation had blown out every candle.

No one said anything, but they waited. Hal was not moving, but his belly was slowly moving up and down with each steady breath he took. Patrick swallowed, his face pale from the whole ordeal.

“Hal…? Lad…?” he called softly, reaching out for the Homunculus. His hand brushed Hal’s shoulder.

And a split second later, he and the others jumped as Hal opened his mouth again, but no scream came out. His back arched clear off the floor, his body stiff as a board and eyes nearly bugging out of his head. A choking sound emerged from his throat, his cheeks turning orange, and his Adams apple bobbing unnaturally in the urge to get something _out._

“He’s chokin’!” Patrick barked, grabbing his friend and turning him onto his side.

Hal again lurched, a choked gasp escaping him as his back undulated, his hands flying for his throat and mouth. Patrick swore and picked his friend up, looping his arms around his waist and turning Hal so he was handing from his arms on his hands and knees.

Black suddenly spurted from Hal’s mouth, staining the floor as it bubbled and steamed with an unnatural heat. A pungent odor filled the air; it stank of _fear_ and _pain_ itself. Jack was visibly shaking, somehow appearing paler than normal.

_‘What’s happening to him…?!’_ he thought hysterically. 

“Hal! Come on lad, get it out!” Patrick barked desperately.

Hal’s back lurched once more, purging not just another puddle of the black essence, but something else that remained lodged in his throat and dangled from his mouth. It looked like…

_‘A chain…?’_ the Guardians wondered all at once.

Nature cringed as the smell only got worse, and Hal’s choked retching only became more strained. Gasping futilely, Hal seemed to regain a bit of himself, and reached up for the chain. He grabbed it, and started to pull. Patrick gasped and grabbed his hand.

“Stop! Yer goin’ to hurt yerself!” he snapped.

Gagging, Hal shoved Patrick away and turned away from him, grabbing the chain once more. He tugged and yanked weakly with shaking hands. Tears ran down his face in rivets, the amber streams streaked with black. He retched again, and pulled, bringing the chain out further. With each weak push of his throat, he pulled and tugged, the others too stunned to do anything but _watch_. 

By the time Hal was only giving out soundless, high pitched gasps, he had pulled out a foot and a half of the thin chain. With a sob and one last tug, its end was yanked out, and out poured a diseased cascade of the black essence. 

The inky sludge seemed to burn through the floor, steaming and bubbling like a witch’s brew. Once it stopped, Hal was left gasping for air that would not come fast enough to his lungs, his whole body wracked with tremors as he weakly supported himself on hands and knees. 

He coughed and dry heaved momentarily, before he teetered and collapsed onto his side, motionless.

“H-Hal!” Patrick scrambled over to his fallen friend, gathering the limp Homunculus into his arms. “Hal? Hal! Come on lad, say somethin’! Wake up!”

Hal only hung like a ragdoll as he was shaken by Patrick. Oddly though, his hand refused to slacken its hold on the chain, and whatever else was on its end. The Leprechaun’s shoulders shook, panic rising in him, until Nature laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Wait…” she said softly, pressing a hand to Hal’s chest.

A long, tense moment passed, everyone seemingly holding their breath. Nature scanned her hand over his chest, then up his neck and over his face. Carefully, she pried open one of his eyelids. His eye was rolled up partly into his head, the pupil blown, but faintly responsive. She sighed.

“It’s alright, he’s only unconscious,” she said, releasing his eyelid. 

The whole room seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Patrick shakily nodded and crushed the limp Homunculus to his chest, lifting him from the soiled floor. He gave North a burning look.

“Take me to yer infirmary,” he said shakily yet firmly. A demand. 

Though pale and still quite shocked, North nodded numbly and gestured to the door. Lumbering out with unsteady feet, Patrick picked up Hal – the Homunculus still refused to relinquish his hold on the chain – and his dropped broom, and vanished out the door. 

Jack swallowed dryly, staring at the dried and burnt area on the floor that was caked with what looked like a solid version of the essence. It was like hot lava – once cool, it solidified into a dark mass. And the chain…

Slowly, he approached the remains of the black puddle Hal had purged from his body, ignoring Bunny’s hissing to stay back. He was a mere few paces away from it, but was stopped when Nature stood up and blocked his path.

“Do not touch it,” she hissed.

Jack tightened his grip on his staff, anxious, before Bunny spoke up.

“What…was _that?_ ” he rasped, “What the hell happened to Hal?”

Nature gave Bunny a scathing look, and shook her head. “That is none of your business. You will have to ask him when he recovers.”

“None of our business?! Look at what happened!” Bunny gestured to the burnt floor and coalesced essence. “Now tell us what happened! One minute he’s doing some voo-doo mumbo-jumbo, next thing he’s purging his guts up!”

Nature scowled at the Guardian. “This _thing_ is not of Halistair’s body.”

“Then what is it?!” Bunny snapped.

Nature didn’t answer at first. Rather, she seemed to regard the still Boogeyman upon the bed. The marks Hal had drawn on him were partly gone now, as if smeared by some unknown force. He still remained asleep, not the least bit disturbed by all the screaming or thrashing from the Homunculus. He was completely immersed in his own little world – his prison.

Sighing, Nature clenched her fists and thinned her lips.

“That essence was a souvenir,” she said, “It is a small piece of what Hal brought back from Pitch’s soul*.” 

“What…does that mean…?” Tooth asked meekly. 

Nature shook her head, eyes still locked onto Pitch.

“It means the damage you lot did was worse than we thought,” she said coldly, “It means his soul is dying – his very center is dying.”

Jack didn’t hear anymore. He had left by the time Nature had mentioned his center. 

****

**

~s~S~s~

**

****

“Augh…!”

“That’s it, come on lad, let it out…” Patrick soothed, rubbing the Homunculus’ back.

Hal gasped and heaved again over the bed and into a provided bucket. The infirmary was mostly empty, with only a single nurse Yeti off in the back room, and Patrick and Hal occupying one of the many beds. 

The Leprechaun was, in a sad way, thankful that Hal was only bringing up what he ate in the last twenty-four hours – mostly candy – and not more of that painful essence. He sometimes cursed Samhain for making it so Hal could only really ‘run’ on sugar to keep his fire alive*. It wasn’t healthy – though then again, his drinking probably wasn’t either, but it wasn’t like he _lived_ off the stuff…

“Ugh…” Hal shuddered, now finished, and flopped back onto the bed, completely burned out. Patrick picked up a rag from the nightstand and wiped a bit of the excess from Hal’s mouth, before picking up a second, damp rag, and placing it on his forehead. 

“There…” he sat back on the bedside chair, looking down at Hal worriedly. “How ye feeling now, doll?”

Hal coughed, his throat raw and sore. He had to wonder if he was going to lose his voice from this, or if it was going to be changed permanently. He looked tiredly up at Patrick, his eyes bloodshot.

“Tired…” he rasped. His voice was shot and scratchy, and it made Patrick wince in sympathy for the small spirit. 

“Not surprised, ye gave us quite a scare back there,” he said with a hopefully humorous smile.

It soon fell though, as it became apparent that Hal was in no mood to joke or lighten up. He was tired and his head was throbbing. And what he had seen inside Pitch…

Hal screwed his eyes shut, shuddering violently. He felt like he was going to be sick again…

Patrick sighed, adjusting the damp rag on his friend’s forehead. He considered asking to see the chain still clenched in Hal’s hands, but thought better of it. Hal’s actions were never done for no reason; he always had a purpose for things he did, even involuntarily. And if he did not want Patrick to see just what he brought back, then he was going to have to respect that.

He suddenly tensed when he heard the window across from them open, and a lanky figure crept in. And when he saw who it was trying to sneak in, he crossed his arms and scowled.

“The hell are ye doin’ in here, brat?” he growled.

Jack stumbled, not expecting anyone except Hal to be in the room. Although a part of him wasn’t that surprised that Patrick was there with Hal. Cautiously, and with no small amount of trepidation from the Leprechaun’s scowling face, Jack slipped fully into the room and stood by the open window meekly, staff held loosely in one hand.

Patrick’s scowl only deepened. “Close the damn window ye brat, he’ll catch his death,” he hissed.

Jumping, Jack quickly turned and closed the window, cutting off the circulation of cold air into the infirmary. He looked back at the other two, licking his dry lips in anxiety. Patrick paid him little mind, instead turning back to the now sleeping Homunculus. He fussed with the sheets briefly, making sure they were tucked tightly around him until he resembled more a mummy than a witch.

“I won’t ask again,” he started softly so as not to wake Hal, but there was an obvious sense of agitation in his voice, “What are ye doin’ here?”

Jack opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He visibly deflated, now uncertain. Why was he here, he wondered. There was nothing he could do for Hal. The action to get up and follow Patrick and Hal had simply been the first thing to pop into his head when Nature spoke those awful things…

‘You used Halistair as an excuse to escape…’ that voice said, causing Jack to grimace. 

“No…” he growled. Patrick looked back up at him, eyes narrowed.

“No, what?” he grunted. 

Jack flinched. “N-nothing…just…talking to myself…”

Patrick snorted, but said nothing. He instead reached into his jacket and pulled out a silver flask, uncapping it and draining half its contents. Judging by the potent smell that reached Jack, it was likely some kind of spiced alcohol. The Leprechaun set the flask aside on the bedside table, shoulders slumping as he stared down at Hal.

“Hal can’t talk now…” he muttered. Jack nodded.

“Is…is he okay…?” he asked meekly. Patrick seemed to consider the question, as if he himself wasn’t sure if Hal was alright or not. He scowled.

“No. No, he ain’t alright,” he grunted, “His King is lyin’ in a state cause you Guardians couldn’t mind yer own damned business, and he’s heart-sick cause of it.”

“Pitch attacked us…” Jack growled, hand tightening on his staff.

“That’s where yer wrong, lad,” Patrick said, rubbing his forehead, “Pitch attacked _them_ , and they wanted you in the cross-fire. Ye could have said no and been done with it, but ye got caught in the whole mess, and made it yer business.”

“Even if I didn’t want to, the Moon chose me to-!”

“To what?!” Patrick snapped, standing so suddenly he toppled his chair. He marched over to the stunned Jack and grabbed him by the front of his hoodie, lifting him clear off the floor until their noses were nearly touching, “To protect kids?! Or to add you to his collection of soldiers?! Ye ain’t nothing special, yer just as simple-minded, thoughtless, selfish, and naïve as any other brat in this world!”

Jack gasped as he was shaken by the collar of his hoodie, Patrick’s teeth flashing – the single gold canine in his mouth nearly blinded him.

“I ain’t sayin’ it’s _all_ yer fault, but yer a contributin’ factor here,” Patrick said forcefully, as if he was physically trying to shove his words into Jack’s mind, “Ye had no business in getting into a fight not yer own. Ye at first defied the Moon, and we applauded ye for that!”

Jack’s brows shot up, shocked. How did he know that he had rejected Guardianship at first? 

“But ye caved, and not fer the reasons ye think…” Patrick brought him closer until their noses were actually touching, his cigar and alcohol laden breath nearly choking Jack. “Yer a selfish brat…”

“Pat…”

Freezing, Patrick turned and looked down at the clawed hand weakly clutching at the tail of his jacket. Bloodshot amber and orange eyes looked up at him tiredly, glassy yet dull. Hal’s hand released his jacket and flopped back onto the bed. His other hand was clutched to his chest under the blanket, concealing the hidden item he procured from Pitch’s inner turmoil. 

“That’s enough…” he rasped, “You’ve said enough. This isn’t your fight.”

“It tis when someone hurts ye, however indirectly it may be,” Patrick argued, though it was halfhearted. He could never bulk up a true argument with Hal; he was wrapped around the smaller spirit’s clawed fingers. 

“Let him go, Pat,” Hal said softly.

Grinding his teeth, Patrick gave Jack one last scowl, before dropping him to his feet unsteadily. Jack scrambled back with his staff held up in defense, hands shaking in anxious uncertainty and agitation. 

Hal looked over at Jack weakly, eyes hooded and desperately wanting to close again. But he couldn’t, and more importantly, he wouldn’t.

“I woke ye…” Patrick muttered. Hal shook his head.

“No, it wasn’t you…” _it was the nightmares,_ was what he left out intentionally. He could not tell Patrick what he was seeing, what he was _feeling_. No one could know, except…

“Jack. Come here,” he said.

Swallowing, but unable to disobey the frail soul on the bed, Jack shuffled over to the bedridden spirit. He dodged Patrick and put as much distance between them as he could, as if he was afraid the man would lash out and take his head off. Once at his side, Hal looked up at Patrick again.

“Pat, please give us a moment. Alone,” he said.

“What? No, not happenin’ Hal, not when this little brat could hurt ye. He seems to have a talent for that, unintentionally or not,” Patrick snapped.

“Pat, please, he’s not going to hurt me.”

“Ye don’t know tha’! He had no idea that hurtin’ Pitch meant hurtin’ ye and the others, what’s to say he won’t make a mess of things _again?!_ ”

Jack cringed, visibly withdrawing in on himself. _You make a mess of everything_ , Pitch’s words rang true and clear in his mind from that day. Even Bunny’s voice echoed in his head, calling him a nuisance and an unwanted brat. It was such a sore spot to him still, when it simply should not be anymore. It had been fifty years, why was he still so hurt by such insignificant words? 

“Patrick…” Hal said, more firmly than he should be capable of in his state, “Please…leave us.”

Patrick, nostrils flaring in contained anger, silently conceded to the Homunculus’ request – or rather, demand. He could not, would not, disobey the Monarch. He mentally cursed himself, that soft spot in him for the frail-looking spirit in the bed nearly destroying him. _You’re going to be the death of me,_ he thought fondly. Sighing, he scrubbed at his face with his palm before turning for the door.

“If he does anythin’ to ye, just call out, and I’ll come back…” he said.

Hal smiled tiredly, bidding his friend a quiet farewell as the door clicked shut behind him. Once alone though, his smile fell, and his expression became flat and almost annoyed. Sighing through his nose, Hal forced himself to sit up.

“H-Hal, wait, you shouldn’t be-”

“If you want to make yourself useful, get me something to prop me up,” Hal cut in sharply.

Jack swallowed, stunned by his friend’s blunt demeanor. But none the less, he rushed over to another bed and took its pillow, coming back to put it between Hal and his own pillow. Now propped up in a reclined sitting position, Hal regarded Jack with a flat look, hands folded in his lap. The chain was still held in a fist, only a few links exposed from between his fingers.

“What…what did you want to talk about?” Jack asked. 

Hal blinked slowly, cat-like. “I think the question is what do you want to talk about?”

Jack flinched, suddenly put on the spot. “I…I don’t have anything to talk about, Hal.”

“Then why did you come here?” Hal asked softly. 

Jack sucked on his teeth briefly, trying to come up with _something_ to say. But what could he say? I fled here to you because you seemed like the perfect excuse to not hear any more of what Nature had to say? I came here because I want answers, but don’t want to hear them? He didn’t know which sounded worse, and he did not plan on exploiting any of these reasons.

_‘Which makes me a coward…’_ he thought to himself. Or perhaps the voice said it? He wasn’t too sure anymore. 

Hal shook his head, again blinking that candy-corn gaze of his. “Jack, I know you came here for selfish reasons, even on instinct you used me to get away.”

Jack’s eyes widened and he stared at Hal, disbelieving. _‘How did he…?’_

“Jack…I can see, hear, and interact with people’s souls, both departed and still contained,” Hal explained wearily, “The soul, the heart, never lies. And right now, yours is telling me many things* I had hoped would never come to pass.” 

Jack could only stare, suddenly uncomfortable and frightened. Hal could, in a sense, read his thoughts, his emotions. He had never known his friend was capable of such a thing. And yet, all these years of knowing him, he never once brought it up. But then again, why would he? Mindreading was not a trait people found to be overly sought out. One’s heart and mind was just that; theirs, and no one else’s to see or hear*.

Hal regarded Jack coolly. “I have frightened you.”

The frost sprite only nodded, unable to really speak. Hal sighed.

“And not just now, but back at the Eden, at the Court, and here when I looked inside of Pitch…” – a rueful smile came to his face – “It seems even I am acting like a child as well.”

Though it was subtle, Hal had just openly implied and confirmed that he thought just as highly of Jack as Patrick did. He thought he was a child; naïve, thoughtless, and selfish. Hal was simply not a liar, and oddly, that made him all the more fierce, and made Jack feel only smaller. 

“But that is not what you want to talk about, is it?” Hal probed. 

Jack felt a lump in his throat he could not swallow down, and could only nod numbly – almost against his will. But what could he say – _how_ could he say it?

He decided to go with an alternative route. “I’m sorry…” he said weakly.

“Do you even know what you are apologizing for, Jack?” Hal asked gently. 

That was a good question; what _was_ Jack apologizing for? Hurting Pitch? Hurting him and the other dark spirits? For being thoughtless and cowardly? The list went on, and yet somehow, he could not apologize for any of these things – he felt remorse, but it wasn’t deep set enough. It didn’t hurt enough. The agony of his guilt and humiliation of knowing next to nothing about anything was at the forefront of his mind. He wasn’t clear-headed enough to feel fully guilty.

_‘Even in guilt you are selfish…’_ that voice said.

Hal’s eyes narrowed slightly, lips thinning. His pupils seemed to expand, becoming glassy and distant. His focus on Jack seemed to wane, like he was literally looking through him – or inside of him. It was a rather disconcerting expression, despite his weariness. It made Jack tense, shuffling from foot to foot.

“Hmm…” Hal hummed, thoughtful, before his eyes sharpened and focused on Jack again, “I thought so…”

“What?” Jack asked dumbly, confused by the sudden statement. Hal shook his head.

“Nothing, nothing at all…” he said, “But Jack, in all honesty, do you know exactly what is going on right now? With ours and the human world? Just tell me; how far do you think this runs?”

Jack swallowed, eyes downcast as he tried to grasp the full meaning of Hal’s words. What did he know…virtually nothing. He knew the situation was bad, but something was telling him he was nowhere near grasping just how dire the situation was. He was grabbing at straws now, each one giving no answer and adding even more questions to the growing list.

“I…I know it’s bad, for lack of better terms…” he muttered. Hal sighed, disappointed. It drove a knife into Jack’s heart knowing he had once again disappointed someone.

“What has happened to you, Jack? What did the Moon do to you?” he asked. Jack frowned; the Moon?

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Hal regarded Jack coolly, yet seemed to be studying him; dissecting him. Jack felt like a goldfish in a bowl being stared at by an overly curious child. It made him uncomfortable, left a feeling of lacking in his body. There was something inside him being probed, examined. A part of him wanted to flee, to block out this thing trying to reach inside of him and peek into his very soul. And yet, no matter how much he mentally fought with it, he could not grapple with it, and was left paralyzed as he was cut open and judged. 

_‘Is this his power…?’_ he wondered*.

Hal suddenly blinked, and that violating searching was gone. Eyes adjusting into cat-like slits*, Hal narrowed his eyes in a half glare that seemed to look through Jack. Candy-corn eyes swerved to look out the window and into the night sky, his gaze cutting into the Moon.

“Perhaps he took more than just your memories…” he said softly, yet dangerously. 

Jack shook his head, confused. “I don’t under-”

“Jack.” Hal stopped him then and there with his voice alone. Shifting, he waved a hand, causing the curtains to all close. Jack gasped as they were submerged in nearly complete darkness.

It was soon broken however, by the glow of a tiny flame at the tip of a finger on Hal’s free hand. The eerie lighting, only showing Hal’s face, the rest of him covered in a veil of darkness, was haunting.

“Hold out your hand,” Hal said quietly.

Though a bit frightened, Jack did so, though hesitantly. He heard the blankets shift as Hal removed his fisted hand, loosening it. He held it over Jack’s unseen open palm, and opened his hand. Something heavy and metallic dropped into Jack’s palm, parts of it dangling off the sides. And something else – something a bit heavy, long, and oddly shaped was attached to it…

“You need to know these things, Jack,” Hal said in that same quiet, secretive voice. Jack had to lean in slightly to hear; why was he whispering so cautiously? “Take this, he wanted you to have it. And show it to no one.”

“What? Hal, I don’t understand, what are you-”

“You will understand soon, but for now, you must go,” Hal said. The bed shifted as he moved to recline back into the medical bed, the flame starting to flicker and dim, “Remember, no one can know about what I gave you. Keep it safe and out of sight.”

Jack looked like he was about to object, but instead looked down at his unseen hand. It was too dark to see what he had, and he could not fully identify what it was he held. His eyes strained to see, but this darkness Hal submerged them in…it was similar to Pitch’s. Depthless, endless, an impenetrable abyss.

He really was like Pitch…

“I am tired, Jack,” Hal sighed, the flame diming further and casting his tired, glassy eyes in an orange glow, “Please leave.”

Jack clenched the chain in his hand, frustrated. “Hal, I still don’t-”

Hal blew out the flame. And just at that same moment, the door to the infirmary opened, spilling light into the dark room. And whether it was out of instinct or a wish to follow Hal’s words, Jack clenched his fist around the chain and shoved it into his hoodie pocket.

North stood with Patrick glowering at the Russian at his side in the doorway, looking around as if to find some hidden intruder. Jack could faintly see the other Guardians behind him, all radiating anxiety and worry.

“Jack, are you alright?” North asked suddenly.

Jack startled, before veering his head over to Hal. But whatever he wanted to say died in his throat as he gazed down at the deeply sleeping Homunculus. His narrow chest rose and fell under the sheets steadily, yet with a slight tremor. His brows were knitted and drawn, as if he was dreaming. Black lips were drawn into a thin line, and he could see his eyes swerving from left to right rapidly behind his eyelids. 

Jack looked back at the Guardians and Patrick, fist still stuffed into his pocket. He nodded slowly.

“Yeah, I’m…I’m fine…” he said, though very much unconvincingly. 

The others either did not take notice of his discomfort, or chose to ignore it. But in the end, North lumbered into the room and lit some candles and the fireplace in the corner, casting the room into a comforting orange glow; not bright enough to disturb sleep, but enough to give comfort to those wary of the dark, and dim enough to let shadows dance along the walls. 

Patrick took his place back at Hal’s side, falling heavily into the bedside chair as he watched over the exhausted spirit. The other Guardians stayed in the threshold of the door, not wanting to disturb the room’s occupants. Sandy looked like he wanted to offer Hal a dream, but looking back on how Nature took the offer, he was hesitant. In the end he simply left it alone, and gave Jack an inquisitive look.

“I’m fine Sandy, really…” he said. It was odd; he marveled at how much he was lying to people in the past twenty-four hours. 

He wanted to be sick at such a claim, but knew he could not speak to the others of this matter; they obviously were not going to be of any help to him in his search for answers. It was like he had never become a Guardian, and he was a simple nomadic spirit traversing the earth once more; he was on his own.

Jack slipped past the others with a quiet ‘goodnight’. Only once he was far away and back in his own room, back against the door, did he pull out his hand and look at what he had been given.

It was a simple black chain. And at its end…was a key. 

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes. 
> 
> (These footnotes exceeded the character limit here. To see them, follow the link for this chapter on FF.net, including footnotes at the end!)
> 
> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9153154/10/Solitude-and-Darkness
> 
> ~S~


	11. Chasing Fairies

Jack was lost. 

Though where he was lost, he could not tell. It was some kind of forest, he presumed after a moment of thought and observation. What forest it was, he did not know. There were no animals, no sounds of the wind, not even any bugs to be seen or heard. The trees were gnarled and leafless, their branches twisted and tangled in a messy canopy that prevented him from flying up into the open sky. The cage of branches above him was disconcerting at best, and it made him feel claustrophobic.

_‘How did I even get here anyways?’_ he wondered. 

He wandered for what felt like miles, his feet not once giving any signs of protest or ache as he continued on for an unknown destination. Twigs and brittle dirt crunched almost soundlessly under his feet, every sound like a whisper. It was as if the forest itself was trying to be quiet, its own dead branches and barren earth hushing one another in a desperate attempt at secrecy. Eerie whispers floated in the wind like dead leaves in an autumn breeze, each one more quiet than the last.

And suddenly, a new sound, this time clearer and closer. It was like the sound of a lone feather tumbling through the air, its aerial angles and soft fibers cutting through the wind in a freefall. Glacial eyes searched the barren woods for the source, but it seemed to be coming from all directions, echoing yet receding from every tree. 

A light then, just out of the corner of his eyes. Jack tensed, turning so he was facing the source of the small beacon. He stared in surprise, flabbergasted. 

_‘A butterfly…?’_ he thought, bewildered. 

The light – a butterfly – was of pure gold. It was glowing, its single light illuminating so much of the dead forest. Yet somehow, its light never touched a single tree, as if it was afraid to do so. That, or perhaps the darkness was pushing the light away, refusing to let it be touched. Its gossamer wings beat franticly yet gracefully, its twig-like body bobbing with each beat. 

At first Jack thought it was one of Sandy’s apparitions. Was he here too? Were the others here as well? Where was _here_ anyways?

The butterfly suddenly turned and started to flutter into the forest.

“Hey wait!” he called as the butterfly started to vanish into the thick woods.

He gave chase, oddly oblivious to the lack of wind propelling him towards the butterfly. He didn’t even have his staff with him either…

Further and further he went, chasing the golden butterfly through trees, branches, and thick fog. He tried calling to the insect, but it would not stop or slow its flight – an oddly fitting mindset, considering he was talking to a bug. But that didn’t seem to matter to him. All that mattered was that he caught up to it. 

_‘How fast can one bug be?’_ he wondered irritably. 

_“Jack…”_

He froze, his heels digging into the earth as he skidded to a stop at the sound of his name being said in a hushed, whispered voice. Eyes wide, he looked around for any sign of the voice’s owner. But he found nothing.

“Hello?” he asked, raising his voice slightly, “Is anyone there?”

No response. But that voice, how it said his name – it was familiar. Where had he heard that voice before? 

The sound of fluttering again, like a child’s sigh, and he turned back to the butterfly. It was fluttering stationary a few yards away from him, as if it were waiting for Jack. He frowned, taking a step closer. The butterfly moved a small pace back, but stopped when Jack made no move to follow. He took another step; the butterfly moved. It was only going to move if Jack did…

“What is going on…?” he wondered aloud.

The butterfly bobbed in the air, as if telling Jack to hurry up. It suddenly turned tail and began flying away from him.

“Hey, wait!” Jack called, giving chase once more.

Seemingly oblivious to his surroundings, Jack pursued the fragile insect. Leaping over rocks and logs, dodging and weaving through trees and thickets, he seemed to be getting no closer to the butterfly than he anticipated. If anything, it seemed like it was getting further and further away from him. 

“Son of a…!” Frustrated, Jack vaulted over a rock and pushed himself into a faster sprint.

A small part of his brain nagged at him all the while; why was he chasing the thing anyways? Shouldn’t he be figuring out where he was? Where the others were? How he got here?

But his focus was entirely upon the hypnotic fluttering wings of the golden butterfly and its gossamer light. Forcing his body into a final dash, Jack vaulted himself from a boulder and into the air.

“Gotcha!” he cried triumphantly, snapping his palms around the butterfly. 

He landed roughly and clumsily on his feet, and yet no pain bloomed into his limbs. Sighing, he plopped down onto his rear, his hands firmly cupped around the butterfly.

“Alright you, I got you…” _now what?_ He wondered dumbly.

He suddenly paused, and looked up. He wasn’t sure if he should be frightened or cautiously relieved at what he saw. 

It was a gate. A simple, wrought iron gate of angular spikes and blackened metal. Around it was a gnarled arch made from two trees, and beyond it…was nothing. It led to nowhere, and was attached to nothing. It was just a simple gate stuck out in the middle of nowhere. And yet…

Jack frowned, looking from one side of the gate to the other. He could see the forest beyond the sides of the gate. But when he looked at the gate itself, and past its iron bars, he saw nothing but black. The fog around him seemed to bend and pulse through the gate’s bars, as if it was the door to a sleeping creature’s mouth, and each breath sucked it in, then out in slow puffs. The gaping maw of the gate was looming over Jack as if beckoning – daring – him to go through.

A flutter in his hands then, and he looked down, having forgotten about the trapped insect in his hands. The weak fluttering in his hands was worrisome, and he carefully opened his hands.

His scream somehow got caught in his throat by an unseen claw that refused to let it leave his mouth.

Crushed. His body was absolutely _crushed_. The body was mangled and bent at odd angles in a few places. And the _blood…_

_‘It…it’s everywhere…!’_ Mouth wide in a soundless scream, Jack could only stare in crazed, wide-eyed terror at the broken Boogeyman in his hands. 

Black blood flowed from small parted lips, and wings made from gossamer and dewy gold tears were torn. The tiny man’s body shivered ceaselessly as he fought for breath that refused to fill crushed lungs. Jack felt like he was going to be sick, but could only freeze up in terror as bloody gold eyes opened and looked up at him. 

Those eyes – so different from what he had been used to seeing in the past. Fifty years ago, Jack had only seen malice and contempt in those golden eyes. But here, in the palm of his hands, those eyes expressed pain. There was a plea in them, an unknown sense of questioning. 

Shakily, Pitch’s mouth opened, and he said,

_“Save me.”_

Jack screamed…

And then woke up…

Sitting up in his suddenly too warm bed, gasping for air that was far too thick, Jack swallowed around a lump in his throat. Lurching, he retched dryly over the side of his bed, but nothing would come up. His mouth watered as his body tried to force something, anything, out of his empty gut. And yet, still nothing would come. It became apparently so to his body, as he slowly started to calm and collapsed in exhaustion back onto his bed. His body wracked with tremors, Jack could only stare dazedly at the wall by his bed.

Slowly, as if afraid of what he would see, he brought his hands up into his line of vision. Nothing. There was no blood, no broken wings, no body in his hands. And there was no sign of Pitch Black anywhere in his room. 

He was alone.

Trying once again to swallow the wretched thing lodged in his throat, Jack sat up and looked around his room. He could vaguely recall how he had gotten there in the first place, but could not pinpoint when he had fallen asleep. Sometime after he had left the infirmary, Jack had simply gone back to his room to think. And somewhere during that time, he had fallen into a deep, nightmare-ridden sleep.

He sighed shakily, reaching into his hoodie pocket. He gently touched his fingers to the cold metal chain and key still hidden within, for some reason unwilling to look at it. He just had to know it was there. 

What did it even go to, he wondered. A box? A door? Some other thing? He honestly did not know. Yet another thing to add to his growing list of things he didn’t know. How he wished he wasn’t so naïve, so powerless and clueless as to what was going on. He wished someone would _say something…!_

Jack startled suddenly as a knock sounded at his door. 

“Jack?” a familiar Russian voice called. Jack tensed, pulling his hand out of his hoodie pocket.

“Uh, come in?” he called uncertainly. 

The knob jiggled slightly before it turned and opened, admitting North. The Russian took a brief survey of the room, as if he expected someone else to be in it. Humming, he shut the door behind him and looked over at Jack. 

“Were you talking to someone in here?” he asked. Jack blinked.

“Uh…no? Why?” he asked.

North crossed his arms, quirking a brow. “I heard you talking a moment ago.”

“Well, it wasn’t me,” Jack said uncertainly, “I was asleep a moment ago.”

North still looked unconvinced, and took one last scan about the room. When it became apart that no one was with them, he turned back to Jack with a concerned crease in his brow. 

“Jack…” he started softly, “I think it is time we talk.” 

Talk, he said. Jack felt himself falter, suddenly feeling very much like a cornered animal. North wanted to talk. This could mean a number of things. He could just want to talk of the situation and what they should do about it. He could want to talk about Jack’s outburst in the Globe Room. He could want to talk about what had happened to Hal, and what was now happening to Pitch. He simply did not know; but either way, he was dreading what this talk was going to be about.

“About what…?” he asked meticulously. 

North seemed to fidget, scratching the base of his beard. He seemed almost uncertain, nervous even. He looked at Jack oddly with those baby blue eyes, as if searching.

“That depends,” he said, “What do you want to talk about?” 

Jack felt his jaw clench. He felt like he was speaking to Hal again. He felt like he was being dissected, every iota of his being suddenly exposed and raw before relentless eyes. He had the urge to cover himself, to turn his back and hide _everything_ he held dear close to his chest. Conceal everything, his instincts told him. Don’t let them know anything. _Hide._

_‘Fight or flight…’_ That voice; it sounded like it was remembering. 

_‘But what am I supposed to be remembering?’_ he wondered with a frown. 

Looking at North, he shook his head. “I don’t know what I want to talk about anymore…”

North, expression sympathetic, nodded. Gesturing to the bed, Jack nodded and North sat down, his larger bulk nearly pressing Jack into the headboard. The bedframe creaked in protest at the extra weight, and Jack had to wonder if his bed was going to give out under the Russian man. 

And then it was silent. No one said or did anything. North had his arms crossed and was scrutinizing the floor, while Jack merely sat where he was, twiddling his thumbs. Was North waiting for him to say something? Or was he trying to think of something to say to Jack? It was all very disconcerting, and Jack just wanted to be left alone right now.

“North, I-”

“Jack, we-”

They paused, staring at one another in surprise. Jack felt his cheeks flush slightly in embarrassment. Well, this wasn’t at all awkward, he thought. North cleared his throat and nodded to Jack.

“Ah, you first,” he said.

“N-no, I’m fine. You go ahead…” Jack said uncertainly. 

North sighed, but nodded. He seemed to contemplate for a moment, as if mentally choosing his words. Jack was slightly grateful for this, but also feared just what North was going to say. 

“Jack, the Guardians and I…” – he paused again, furrowing his brows – “We…it’s difficult to say, but…we are sorry.”

Jack stared, dumbstruck. No, North could not do this to him right now. His head was too full of thoughts, and his heart swirling with a storm of emotion. He didn’t have the mental ability to accept any form of apology from North, or any of the Guardians.

“North, no, don’t. Just, this isn’t your fault-”

“But it is,” North said sadly, refusing to look at Jack, “Jack, it was we who decided to keep things quiet around you.”

The frost sprite frowned. “I don’t understand…”

“When you first became Guardian, we listened to you tell us about how lonely it was for you during those three hundred years,” North said, “And although you tried to hide it, we could tell you were greatly hurt and upset with us for not acknowledging you in some way during that time. It was only after we needed something, that we got you involved…”

_“And yet, when trouble brewed for them, the Guardians summon you after three hundred years of solitude, and you make it your business.”_ Nature’s words bit at his consciousness like a rabid wolf.

“After that, and you left for your lake for a while, we spoke together. We were so shocked at how much your isolation affected you…” North shook his head, remorseful.

“We were so, so ashamed,” he said quietly, “We are the Guardians of children, and yet we had failed to protect and give joy to one of our own children.”

At any other time, Jack would have been a smidge insulted at being called a child. But in the end, he knew he was a child. He was but a mere three hundred and fifty years old. North and the others were ancient, centuries older than him. And the other spirits were far beyond his years. Compared to them, he was the naïve little brat who could not make up his mind or do anything quite right. He was the child that left messes for others to clean up. That attention-starved boy with no sense of awareness or self. He was simply _a child…_

“But how does that fit in to you not telling me these things…?” Jack finally asked.

“It is…complicated,” North said carefully, “But more than that, it was selfish of us.”

“We did not tell you more of our world because we were afraid. We feared you would resent us even more, would go off on your own and leave us if you found out that our world is so much bigger than we made it out to be,” he said, “Our world is wonderful, Jack, but it is also full of sorrow and pain. There is a line that divides us all, a horizon, in which we are the Moon’s servants, and the dark spirits are the consorts of the night. We are light, they are dark…”

North looked up at the skylight, eyes lighting up with that spark of wonder he always held. And yet, it was dimmer than it usually was, quieter. It was like the curious, yet cautious, questioning of a child. That look when a child looks up at the night sky, and wonders, ‘is someone out there?’

Jack felt his hands grip his knees, his jaw tight. But he made no move to respond, and instead listened as North continued. 

“We did this to try and protect you, and to a degree, it is true,” North said, “But truly, it was we who were afraid and selfish. We wanted to make up for those three hundred years, to show you how wonderful our world was. We did not want to lose you to the night, and wanted to keep you under the rays of moonlight.

“We did not want you to see…how sinister, yet beautiful, the night is. And when you told us of how Pitch made the offer to join him…we were _terrified_. We did not want you to willingly walk into that dark world. That place, filled with darkness and silence, of creatures foul and fair…”

“So you figured if you told me how awful it was…”

“That you would fear it, and stay away.” North nodded, confirming Jack’s words. The Russian looked over at Jack pleadingly then, eyes swimming with a whirlpool of emotions.

“Jack, we only did this because we were selfish, and wanted to keep you to ourselves,” he said, “And we are so sorry for it, because in the end, our silence has hurt you once again. We never, ever, meant for any of this to happen…”

Jack did not know what to say. His head felt like it was going to explode after those words left North’s mouth. He stared at North with wide, expectant eyes. Yet inside, his heart was pounding, and he could feel the beginning sparks of anger starting to light.

“And the Moon?” he asked, voice shaking, “What did he say about it?”

Again, North’s expression nearly had Jack wanting to fly out his window. The man had never looked so broken, so ashamed in all of Jack’s time of knowing him. Those wide, baby blue eyes sparkled with unshed tears, and he looked at Jack as if he had done everything that could be done wrong to the frost sprite.

“It was Manny’s idea, his order, that we not speak of the dark realm which opposes us…” he said softly.

Jack felt his blood freeze, as if his own powers had rebelled. He was back under his lake again, drowning in the freezing cold water, alone. His knuckles somehow became even whiter as he squeezed his knobby knees, nearly dislocating the caps. He felt like he had dropped into an inter-dimensional pocket, and was floating in a vacuum. The Moon…had told the Guardians to keep these things from him. The Moon had told them to keep Jack as childish as he looked, and all for the sake of… _what?_

_“Perhaps he took more than just your memories…”_ Hal’s voice had suddenly become sinister in his mind, his words like the hissing allure of a snake. 

“Why?” he asked, his voice unbelievably calm.

North laced his fingers together between his knees, frowning at the floor. Jack waited impatiently, nearly wanting to scream at North just why they thought this was okay. Why they thought that he was so vulnerable and soft of mind that he would just… _abandon_ them like they feared. 

North sighed, shaking his head.

“Because we are selfish,” he sighed.

Jack felt his once frozen blood boil over, and he stood up and faced North.

“No, you don’t get to do that anymore, North,” he said, his voice cracking, “You don’t get to give me these vague answers anymore. You already confessed why this was all going to shit and why I’m such an oblivious idiot to all this. Now tell me; _why?!_ ”

North looked up at Jack imploringly, mild surprise at his outburst apparent in his eyes. But he said nothing, and Jack started to tremble. Why? Why all these secrets? He thought they were all friends now; a family. What reason was there to be so afraid of whatever truth they were hiding? 

Jack felt himself breathing harder, and he pointed a shaking finger at North.

“Why? Why keep this from me, truly? What are you so damn afraid of?!” he shouted.

North winced at the shout, but still, he said nothing. But after a moment, he closed his eyes and put his forehead into a propped up hand on his knee.

“We are selfish…” he said, “And we cannot tell you why.”

“Why?! You have to tell me!” Jack snapped.

“We cannot…” 

“Yes, you can! Just tell me…!” Jack felt his throat and chest constrict, his eyes burning. This wasn’t fair, this wasn’t _right…!_

But North, he had to break Jack’s heart. He shook his head. 

“I cannot tell you,” he said, “Because I am selfish…”

Jack had had enough. With shoulders shaking, and teeth biting painfully into a bottom lip, he turned and picked up his staff. He didn’t look back as he rushed for his window and opened it. But before he could jump out, he scarcely heard North say something ever so quietly.

“I am sorry, Jack…” 

Jack would hear no more though. Without looking back, he flew out his window and left the North Pole…

****

**

~s~S~s~

**

****

He didn’t know why – or even how – he ended up in Burgess. But he did, and somehow, the dried up and desolate forest he used to call home no longer felt like home to him. The trees were all missing either all or a large majority of their leaves. Small animals that once used to prowl through the trees or skitter on the ground were not present, all either choosing to hide out somewhere, or were simply gone…

The frost sprite landed with silent feet on the ground, not even making a sound as he crushed dried and dead leaves underfoot. He looked around, suddenly lost. Where could he go from here? Why was he here? Why did it no longer feel like home to him…?

He shook his head, tired and uncertain. Holding his staff loosely in one hand, he trekked an invisible pathway into the woods of Burgess, unsure of where he was going. But he did not care at this point; he just had to _move_.

North and the others had lied to him, kept things from him. And for what? For some huge reason they could not voice to him? Because they were, as North put it, selfish? What did that even mean? Why would the Moon allow this…?

Jack paused and looked up at the bleak, cloudy sky. He could not see the Moon, and the Moon could likely not see him. Somehow, this both enraged and comforted Jack. He had to wonder if the Moon was using the overcast sky as an excuse not to face Jack. Or perhaps there was simply no helping it. There were clouds, but no rain. It was desolate in the sky…

Without so much as uttering a sound, he moved on. Weaving through willowy trees and over large rocks, his mind would just not turn itself off. 

The Guardians were not the only ones at fault here, he thought. He himself was also to blame. They never told, and he never asked. But there was more to their world than just the Guardians. Why had he not just gone to someone else for answers? Like Hal, or Harley, or if he was desperate, Patrick. He should have stopped and asked himself; what is there besides myself and the Guardians? Why was he so sure that, despite seeing other spirits, the whole universe revolved just around the Moon, the Guardians, and himself? Why?

_‘Because you are a child,’_ the voice said, _‘And good children do not question their elders…’_

The tone the voice used was odd, as if it were trying to convey both sympathy and irritation all in one. But he supposed it was right, again. Yet at the same time, he honestly could recall no reason as to why he never spoke up or asked anyone about their world. Whenever he tried to think back on why, he drew a huge blank. It was like chunks of his memories – his emotions – were missing.

Jack paused suddenly, catching something out of the corner of his eye. A light – a golden light…

The winter sprite’s heart throbbed painfully, and he looked down at his hands. The pale appendages shook, despite having nothing within them besides his staff. There was no tiny, fragile, fae-like body. There was no blood, no crumpled wings, and there were no eyes looking up at him as if he were the very devil himself come to destroy all everyone ever loved; there was nothing. They were empty.

He looked up again, catching the dim light coming through a thick outcrop of trees and shrubs. He swallowed dryly, wondering if he should check it out. The light was flickering ever so slightly, dancing with shadows and shade alike. Was there a fire in his forest?

_‘Go…’_ The voice soon vanished, locked behind a barrier in Jack’s head he simply could not open. 

A bead of sweat crawled down Jack’s temple, and he quickly wiped it away with the sleeve of his hoodie. He gripped his staff tightly, pointing it towards the shrubs. Carefully, he slid it through, and pushed the foliage to one side, revealing the source of the light.

Candles.

They were everywhere. On large stones he did not recall being there, on the ground, in dead trees, it was like seeing a hundred stars out in the open clearing. All of them had a strange, yet calming, golden glow to them. They were unlike any flame he had ever seen – eerily yellow like the sun, yet strangely subdued, dim, unobtrusive. They were as silent as the sun was loud and blaring with its blinding shine. 

Eyes wide, Jack stepped out of the shrubs and into the clearing. He looked around, noticing other things had been mysteriously placed within the clearing. Stones of varying colors and sizes were piled up in different areas, strange runes carved into them like charms. A wooden chime hung from a low branch in a tree, its hollow pipes oddly lonesome and still without its wind. Parcels and other strange boxes and items had been placed in the center of the clearing, wooden plaques scrawled in some kind of Asian kanji propped up against rocks. Wards were placed on trees and hung on wooden poles, and the ground in the clearing’s center hosted a variety of gold and black silks. Just barely, Jack could make out tiny gems and crystals, and bottles of strange liquids settled in the silks and softer soil. 

Wandering closer, Jack could see, plain as day, just what was at the very center of the clearing, surrounded by these strange and silent treasures. 

The hole in the ground, where Pitch’s once lair laid. It was surrounded by candles and trinkets, the gemstones giving off colorful yet subdued light from the candle’s glow. Surrounded as it was, Jack could only picture a black hole dragging planets and stars into its abyss in a swirling mass of chaotic beauty. A whirlpool of darkness and pinpricks of light…

Inching closer, Jack peered down into the dark hole. It was endless, or seemingly so. It was so dark, so full of that suffocating darkness that would swallow you whole and never let go. It was that kind of darkness that followed you for the rest of your life. As if it was an ink that would permanently stain your very being. And no matter how much you bathed, scrubbed, and scrapped, it would never leave you alone. It would always be there – a stain on your very soul. 

But something caught his eye. There, just along the edge, caught between two rocks jutting from the hole’s wall. A square, flat, off-white thing. It was just barely visible, despite being only a few feet down. But the darkness was unrelenting, despite how weak it was. It was hungry, and wanted to swallow anything and everything it could. 

His own natural curiosity piqued, and somehow unable to help himself, Jack got down on his knees. He reached out, but stopped. He couldn’t just stick his hand down there, could he? That darkness would eat him alive, suck him in like the black hole it represented. Frowning, Jack regarded his staff. He looked back down at the item down in the hole, and made up his mind.

Carefully, he took the bottom end of his staff, and lowered the hook end into the hole. He waved it around a bit, and nothing happened. Nothing reached up and grabbed the offered crook, and Jack didn’t feel any invisible force tugging on it. 

Holding his breath, he slowly lowered his staff until the hook touched the item. Still nothing happened, and Jack was both glad and suspicious of this. But he shook it off. He focused a bit of his power, and froze a small portion of the item to his crook. Once sure it was stuck, he began to pull up.

Only, he couldn’t.

“What the…?” Confused, Jack pulled up again. But he once again met with resistance.

He frowned. Did the hook get caught on a rock, he wondered. He shifted into a squat, and pulled up again. This time, instead of just resistance, he was pulled _down_. 

“Hey!” he cried, tugging his staff back up.

He could see nothing but darkness down in the hole, but he could _feel_ that something had a hold of his staff. And it wanted Jack to come in and see it for himself.

“Let…go…!” He gritted his teeth, digging his heels into the earth and pulling back as hard as he could. 

He was dragged slightly forward, his heels just barely touching the edge of the hole. His heart pounded in his ears, fear eating him alive. If he did not let go of his staff, he would be dragged in and find out just what wanted him down there. But if he did let go, he’d lose his source of power, his flight, a very part of himself. And he did not want to lose it again.

“I said…let _go…!_ ” he snapped.

He suddenly gasped as the thing tugged viciously, and he found himself pitching forward. He was now looking down directly into the hole, eyes wide and all sound aside his heartbeat drained from his ears. Slowly, he was falling, being dragged down and into that eternal abyss. Where there was no light, no escape, nothing but darkness and despair and-

He stopped, his throat suddenly closing as if a noose had tightened around his neck. His first instinct was to reach up and undo whatever was around his neck, but he was suddenly pulled back, and thrown to the ground with a thud. His staff landed beside him with a clank, the collar of his hoodie no longer choking him – how had it been choking him?

Time seemed to catch up to Jack, and in the blink of an eye, he was gasping and stared dazedly up at the overcast sky. His frame shook with chills that suddenly overcame him, somehow afraid, and somehow _terrified._

“What the bloody hell were you _doing?!_ ” The familiar Aussie accent somehow did nothing to comfort Jack.

Looking up, the frost sprite was confronted with a very disgruntled-looking Pooka. Boomerang clutched in one paw, the other was tightly held in a fist, both arms trembling with what Jack could only assume was the same feeling he was confronted with now. He swallowed, before slowly climbing to his feet and picking up his staff.

“Bunny…” he rasped, unable to think of anything to say. The Pooka scoffed and pointed his boomerang at Jack.

“What the hell were you doing over there?” he snapped, “Do you have any idea how dangerous this place is now? There could be dark spirits crawling anywhere around here now!”

Jack blinked, not understanding. Why would any dark spirits be here? He looked around, as if expecting some hint to an answer to jump up and surprise Jack. Bunny seemed to sense Jack’s confusion, and growled.

“You gala, this is the old entrance to Pitch’s lair,” he said.

“I know _that_ ,” Jack snapped, glaring at Bunny. The Pooka narrowed his eyes, ears folding back.

“Which means you should know why it ain’t safe here,” he said through gritted teeth, patience stretched thin, “The dark souls ain’t happy with us, and if they caught one of us alone here, who’s to say what they would do?”

“But why would they be here?” Jack asked.

“Are you that thick?” Bunny snapped, swinging his free arm out to gesture to the clearing, “Look around you! They’ve been here, or at least a few have! What does this all look like to you?”

Jack tightened his jaw, but none the less, he looked around. All he could see within the clearing were the various items and dim candles illuminating that strange light around him. Tightly closed parcels made him quite curious, but he did not dare to touch any of them. All the stones, items, even a few foods and exotic fares were present, all from every corner of the cultural compass. The silks and other fine fabrics gleamed like woven jewels in Jack’s eyes. And it finally seemed to click for him.

They were offerings. 

Offerings, to a lost and fallen King. He was standing on the grounds of a memorial, of sacred items offered up to a King that could no longer accept such gifts. From knick-knacks, to things that looked like they belonged in the garbage, to the finest of fares – all of it was for Pitch Black…

“…when…?” Bunny shook his head, crossing his furry arms.

“No idea. I only checked up on this area yesterday, and there it was,” he said, “There’s a lot more stuff here from last time. They’re frequenting this place, and it ain’t safe anymore…”

“But…no one would hurt us, right?” Jack suddenly asked, “I mean, yeah, we pissed them off, but they wouldn’t _seriously-_ ”

“Let me stop you right there,” Bunny said, holding up a paw, “Jack, you need to understand. Dark spirits are as varied and individual as humans. But what they all share in common is wrath, disregard, and a sense of vengeance for their King. Many are as they appear to be; sadistic monsters who would get a kick out of making a kid like you scream.”

“But Hal-”

“Ain’t no saint,” Bunny growled, “He may seem like a friendly bloke, but inside, he’s as merciless and nasty as any other beast under Black’s reign. You haven’t seen what he’s like when his fire goes out of control…”

The Pooka’s eyes clouded over slightly, becoming unfocused. He seemed like he was remembering something, recalling a long lost memory of which he wanted to stay lost. A shudder wracked the Pooka’s frame, his fur bristling in many places. He shook his head and refocused on Jack, but there was still a lingering sense of trepidation in his eyes.

“You best to stay at the Pole,” he said, “By now they’re watching for you at your lake.”

Jack slowly shook his head, somehow unable to fully process what Bunny was telling him. But in a way, the Pooka’s words made some form of sense. Jack had no idea what other dark spirits were like. Hal might be some form of exception, or perhaps a good actor. But he could not bear the thought of the Hal he knew as being a farce. From what he had seen of Disliber, Bunny may be right. The Devil was a beast, and acted like one. And Jack did not plan on confronting the Devil again anytime soon – or ever again if he could help it. 

Jack became oblivious to Bunny’s narrowed eyes and quirked brow. The Pooka tilted his head slightly, regarding something just slightly above Jack. Clearing his throat to catch his attention, he nodded up to the top of Jack’s staff.

“What is that?” he asked suspiciously.

Jack blinked, before he looked up at the top of his staff. He suddenly remembered what it was he had been doing looking into the hole. He had seen something, and whether it was from pure curiosity or stupidity, he had tried to pull whatever it was out. And he could now tell what it was.

It was an envelope. Still stuck to the top of his staff by a patch of ice, it was yellowed and crinkled slightly with age. The crease for its long since opened flap was thinned and close to falling right off. It looked like it had been opened recently – if not constantly, what with how worn the paper looked.

Lowering his staff, he gently pried the brittle paper off the hook and regarded it. There was a single slip of paper inside, also looking very much worn and repeatedly folded and unfolded. 

“I…” Jack paused, refusing to meet Bunny’s obviously scrutinizing gaze. What could he say? That he got it from the hole in which he was pulled from? That it was likely a letter to – or from – a dark spirit?

“It’s…” He stopped again, and Bunny seemed to grow impatient.

“It doesn’t matter anyways,” he growled, waving a paw dismissively, “I came here to tell you you’re needed back at the Pole. Now.”

“What?” Jack asked, dumbfounded, “Why?”

Bunny’s face seemed to take on a haunted look, yet it was distorted with his obvious grimace. Arms crossed once more, his claws dug into furry biceps while clawed toes dug into the dry soil. Ears flattened against the Pooka’s head as he stared at the ground; as if daring it to do or say something to him. 

He finally looked up at Jack, and the sprite was startled to see the absolute uncertainty and fear in Bunny’s green eyes.

“Pitch is awake.”

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No footnotes this time. Weird. XD
> 
> ~S~


	12. A Letter to a Ghost.

Jack couldn’t fully recall the whole journey through Bunny’s tunnels leading back up into the Workshop. He could only recall emerging from it in a gust of wind, the Pooka hopping out beside him. He stumbled slightly, nearly tumbling completely over himself at who lay in wait for them.

Jack swallowed thickly, looking down at his feet. He didn’t even attempt to meet North’s gaze, instead opting to look at the rather fidgety Sandman by the Russian’s feet. He had never seen Sandy nervous, let alone looking so anxious and fidgety. Granted, Sandy spoke through his moods, gestures, and habits. But he was still a calmer spirit, and it was so strange seeing him as anything but his usual composed or goofy self. 

Jack tightened his hand around his staff, clearing his throat. 

“He’s…awake?” he inquired, almost hesitantly. 

Sandy nodded slowly, his lips set into a straight, wide line across his face. Beside him Tooth fluttered nervously, looking to and from North and Jack. The frost sprite had to wonder if the Russian had said anything to her. She certainly seemed like she was waiting for the proverbial bomb to go off between them. Not that he could blame her; right now, Jack honestly felt like he could breathe fire if he tried. And yet, his chest felt heavy, his lungs constricted. It felt like there was snow packed in the space between his ribs, compressing organs and freezing his blood. 

Mouth thinning into a tight line, he made to speak. But a certain Pooka beat him to it.

“Keep an eye on him would you?” he hissed to the others, “Found him near Black’s lair. There’s more tributes, and I could smell others had been there recently.”

Outwardly, Jack seemed stunned. But internally, he wanted to outright scream and rave. He was not a child that constantly needed to be looked over and protected. He got along just fine without them in his first three hundred years of life, why should they care now?

_‘Who said anything about caring?’_

Jack scowled. Who indeed…

“Is he awake, or not?” he gritted out instead, refusing to meet the others’ gazes.

North, Sandy, and Tooth were giving him odd looks. Biting her lip, Tooth looked away from the frost sprite, her cheeks flushing. Sandy and North seemed to avert their gaze to Bunny, expressions unreadable, but their eyes were hard, almost in exasperation and mild contempt. 

It made Jack want to scream. Though occasions like this were rare, this was not the first time Bunny talked about Jack and acted as if he wasn’t there. Like a child being demeaned by their parent or older sibling, while they stood there and had to pretend it didn’t bother them in the slightest. Oh yes, Jack had occasionally thrown in his own two cents in these situations, but right now, he honestly could not break free of the anger he felt long enough to find a snide remark. 

And even more than that, the others didn’t even say anything. Jack could recall when he was first taken to North’s Workshop, how Bunny degraded him and not a single one of them jumped in until he was finished. They didn’t even scold him; only Tooth had simply said his name in a halfhearted warning, as if she didn’t care. And the Pooka had only smirked, despite the hurt Jack knew was flashing through his eyes. 

Silence was dangerous here. Silence to the Guardians was denial and an excuse to turn their backs on something they did not want to see or hear. It made Jack want to snarl and spit. He hated the silence, the forced atmosphere of soundlessness and quiet secrets. 

But Jack was finally fed up with the silence. And instead of listening to another minute of Bunny whining and bitching about him and his ability to make his own choices, he marched for the guest room where Pitch resided.

“Jack, wait, you cannot see him yet!”

Jack ignored North, not even making a single attempt to consider the Russian’s words. If anything, he was quite satisfied he had managed to completely tune North out. Let’s see how they liked it, being ignored and completely shut out like bothersome children. 

And yet, another part of him was ashamed. These were his friends, the people who took him in. But they only ever looked his way after they needed him for a reason. Never once had they so much as stopped by to say hello to him prior to his becoming a Guardian. So why bother – let alone care – now?

“Jack!”

The frost sprite continued to ignore them, speeding his steps. He could hear the others following him at a frantic pace, their feet nearly slamming into the wooden floors, and wings buzzing anxiously. But he paid them no mind. 

He had to _see._

The door was within his sights now, mere feet away. 

The moment he stepped before it, his hand reaching for the knob, it was as if he had been thrown back miles upon miles away. The sheer foreboding that radiated off of the door – right from the other side of it – the absolute _fear_ that radiated from it like a toxic flower’s perfume…

It made Jack want to run. He wanted to flee, to be as far away from the door and its occupant as possible. Though why, he simply could not say. He just didn’t want to be anywhere near whoever – or whatever – was behind that door right now. This wasn’t a rational fear, nor was it something he could actively explain. It was just pure _fear_ , a nameless, shapeless mass that attached to his heart and fed on his very resolve like a tumor. It gnawed and chewed at his bones, poisoned his blood and clawed at his insides. 

This beast, without any real name, was a fear born of irrationality, of the manic terror that once plagued the human race in darker times. It was an ancient fear, a beast once locked away in the backs of people’s minds, and once thought to have died, forgotten in its dark little cell. 

But it was not dead. For it was now gripping Jack’s very heart, mind, and body with a monstrous hold, all claws and rotting fingers and putrid stench. And it refused to let go. 

“Jack!”

Something inside him moved – no, it _shoved_ itself against the forefront of Jack’s mind. And with numb fingers, he reached for the doorknob-

The door opened on its own.

Startled, Jack veered back, his staff poised for an attack. The Guardians were mere feet behind him, and they all tensed as the door was opened. But even as they recognized the person who greeted them in the door’s threshold, they did not lose their sense of trepidation and caution. 

Jack swallowed thickly, lowering his staff somewhat.

“Mother…Nature?” he offered lamely. 

The nature spirit said nothing, her face utterly blank, frigid in its almost statuesque setting. Her eyes though – there was some unnamable emotion in her eyes. They were no longer narrowed in her customary scowl or frown. It was rather odd, as this was the first time Jack had ever seen her with a truly blank face that wasn’t glaring at or proverbially spitting at him or the others. 

It seemed to hit him then, just what he was looking at and seeing in Mother Nature’s eyes. This was not a woman hell-bent on making himself and the Guardians as miserable as possible anymore. This was not a fierce, foul and fair woman of nature and Earth. 

Hopeless. 

This was simply a girl in a woman’s body. A girl who had lost all hope. 

A shape suddenly caught the frost sprite’s attention, and he looked around Nature and into the room. That putrid, bone-crushing thickness in the air seemed to pour out of the room like a fog, suffocating and oppressing. Whatever little light there was in the room was almost murky, like a flashlight that had been dropped into a sludge-filled swamp, diluted and clouded, hiding so many dark secrets from all. 

He was sat upright in the bed, blankets heavy on his lap, his form limp and barely supported by the headboard. The arch of his neck looked so pale, almost a translucent white, while his head was tipped up to stare blankly at the ceiling. His eyes were hooded, weary, as if he just woke up, but there was nothing in them; no focus, no emotions, just a blank, sightless gaze.

Hands limp at his sides, Jack was oddly reminded of a child’s doll, just thrown casually onto the bed in a splayed and dazed position. At first, he honestly thought he had indeed been looking at a large doll. The body was so still, breathless, and the eyes were glassy and hollow, lifeless.

The deafening silence of the heavy air was suffocating, nearly smothering all present. The only sound that seemed to waver the silence was their slow, almost muted breath. At some point everyone’s breathing had become heavier, more desperate. Their lungs were being constricted by a merciless snake, hissing and coiling within the cages of their ribs. 

Jack swallowed thickly, startling slightly as Nature suddenly turned to look back at the lifeless Boogeyman. Her hands shaking, she moved forward to stand by Pitch’s side. She slowly sat down in her wooden chair once more, a hand reaching out. She hesitated, pulling her hand back from touching a pale arm. Pitch did not acknowledge her though; it was as if he was completely unaware of his surroundings. Asleep, yet his eyes were open. 

“Pitch…” she called softly, her hand twitching in her lap.

The Boogeyman said and did nothing, only continued to stare sightlessly up at the ceiling. It made them all wonder; was he actually seeing something up there they all could not? Or was there perhaps a hoard of apparitions in his head he thought he was seeing, reflecting through his eyes like a fun-house mirror? 

Nature’s mouth thinned, her expression unreadable. But her eyes were another story. The desperation in them was palpable, yet the icy resolve still remained. There was a sense of cold apathy, yet behind the frigid wall in front of her eyes, there was a mixture of emotions none of them could fully name. A few of them were rather obvious; anger, contempt, confusion, shock, and even a bit of regret. The rest of the swirling emotions in her eyes was left to speculation. But all at once, the Guardians decided they did not want to know what those other emotions were…

Her hands clutching at her dress, Nature somehow managed to pry one free and hold it aloft, hesitant.

“Pitch,” she tried again, this time reaching out hesitantly for the Boogeyman. 

She paused and hesitated briefly. She swallowed thickly, before her hand finally landed to touch a bony shoulder. Nothing happened, Pitch did not even react. But the air around them had become thicker, darker somehow. Like an underwater world, motions were stifled and resisted, predators hiding in the smallest nook and cranny of the room. An octopus had passed overhead, spraying ink in its wake, and darkening the waters of their atmosphere. Their cover now thickened, sharks and other frightening predators left their dens and surrounded them all, waiting, calculating their next move.

No one uttered a word. Instead, the whole room held its breath as Pitch _finally_ moved.

Slowly, as if Time himself were playing games with them, Pitch turned his head to face Nature. His expression had not changed, but he was now looking at something other than the open air or ceiling. Everyone, including Nature, shuddered. The empty, soulless look in his eyes was stifling, frightening even. He might as well not have had eyes at all. There was absolutely nothing there.

“Pitch,” Nature said, her voice wavering slightly, “Can you hear me? Do you know who I am?”

He said nothing, which honestly wasn’t too surprising to any one of them. What would have been shocking is if he had spoken, and was completely coherent and responsive. But he was not, and at this point, they were not sure if he was capable of coherency, or anything truly resembling the old Pitch Black. 

He blinked slowly, a motion most would not even care to notice. But each and every move he made was noticed and taken into account. Slowly, his head cocked to one side, as if he were assessing Mother Nature. His eyes were still empty and hollow though, not a hint of curiosity or any form of emotion present in his eyes. 

“Do you know who I am?” Mother Nature tried again, her hand tightening on Pitch’s shoulder.

Pitch blinked again, before Nature felt his body tense under her hand. He regarded her with a slight widening of his eyes, before his dark, chapped lips parted. 

“You…” he rasped lowly, startling the Guardians and Nature.

Her resolve crumbled ever so slightly, and Nature leaned forward in a rather uncharacteristic display of eagerness. 

“Yes! It’s me, I’m…” She paused, eyes wide, as one of Pitch’s large, thin hands came up into her vision.

He held it aloft briefly, before he reached out to Nature, almost curiously. Nature did not move a muscle, almost stunned as the hand neared her face. Her breath hitched as the cold fingers grazed her cheek, stopping in its reach, as if gauging her reaction. When she did not protect, Pitch moved his hand further until his whole hand cupped her cheek, the cold, icy palm sending shivers down her spine.

Nature was speechless, and the Guardians were just as baffled and shocked as she was. Tension in the room somehow skyrocketed though, eating right through the sound barrier itself until all that was present was an eerie ringing in their ears. 

Nature’s hand, once on his shoulder, shakily rose and came up to rest against the hand on her cheek. She looked flabbergasted, stunned, and yet there was a sense of relief and _hope_ in her eyes. 

“Pitch…” she started, her voice strained, her eyes suspiciously watery, “Do you…do you remember me? Do you remember who I am?”

No response. Instead, there seemed to be a sudden, dark shift in Pitch’s demeanor. 

His head tilted further to a more grotesque angle, his neck audibly popping. The Guardians startled as his eyes blew completely open, the pupils swallowing the dull gold and silver of his irises, and overtaking the sclera completely. A shrill noise erupted into his throat, almost like he was screaming with a closed mouth.

_**“You…”**_ Nature and the Guardians reeled back; that had _not_ been Pitch’s voice. 

She could not move, her entire focus trapped on those soulless black eyes. She didn’t even feel as the hand on her cheek moved down, the other coming to join it around her neck. She didn’t feel her windpipe completely close off as the hands tightened around her throat, her face flushing red and her eyes widening.

Pitch snarled, his lip contorting into a wide, toothy grin.

_**“You bitch…!”**_ he snarled, hands tightening and choking Nature.

“Mother Nature!” The Guardians leaped into action then, weapons drawn and barreling towards the bed.

In a fraction of a second, Bunny and Tooth yanked Nature from her seat as North pried Pitch’s hands off of her neck, leaving her gasping and choking, hands rising to touch her now bruised throat. Pitch howled like a banshee as he was grabbed and thrown from the bed and onto the floor, pinned by North’s heavier bulk. He screamed, thrashing violently as he spat and snarled at the Guardians.

_**“You will never have him back!”**_ he screamed in that warped, monstrous voice that had overtaken him, _**“You will never get him back, you bitch! He is OURS!”**_

Nature coughed, slapping Bunny’s paws away as he tried to help her up. She looked over at the pinned Boogeyman, eyes wide as Sandy neared the dark man with his Dreamsand whips.

“No, STOP!” she snapped.

But Sandy had already gotten too close to Pitch, and the Boogeyman looked at the Sandman above him. He gave one last snarling grin, before his face collapsed into a frightened gape. His eyes returned to their normal color of dull gold and hazy silver, the pupils now shrunken to terrified pinpoints as he stared at the glowing gold star. 

His struggling stopped, and he laid limp and motionless under North. He stared at the confused Sandman for but a moment more, before he opened his mouth and _screamed._

“Get off of him!” Nature snarled, her hands glowing a poisonous green.

North swore loudly and violently in Russian, tumbling off of Pitch as he clutched his vine-bound wrist. The snake-like plant was glowing a venomous green, writhing as the tendrils under his skin dug deeper into his arm and constricted tissue and blood vessels. Sandy also fell back holding his wrist, giving a soundless wail as his own cuff seemed to attack him. 

“Get away from him…!” Nature hissed.

Though pained, North and Sandy managed to move away from Pitch on shaky legs. But it took another minute or so before Nature released her hold on them, their cuffs now relenting in their attack and returning to their seemingly harmless appearances. Pitch laid where he was, now no longer screaming, but practically hyperventilating on the floor. He was trembling awfully, nearly vibrating as a cold sweat overtook his form, his chest heaving in the throes of panic. 

Nature scrambled to her feet, shoving Bunny aside as she did so, and fell to her knees beside Pitch. Her hands hovered over his trembling form, hands glowing as they tried to assess and calm the panicking form before her. Incoherent muttering spilled from Pitch’s lips, like the chattering of a madman, disturbed and undecipherable. 

Nature gritted her teeth violently, hands trembling as she lowered them. She reached forward, arms trembling, and gathered the gaunt Boogeyman in her arms, holding him tightly yet cautiously to her chest. The hand-shaped bruises on her neck were a mottled red, but would no doubt darken into an ugly purple as time passed. 

Cautiously, the Guardians stood on the other side of the room, as far from Nature – and Pitch – as possible. North and Sandy, still recovering from their attack, watched on with a mixture of concern and uncertainty. Bunny and Tooth seemed just as uncertain, yet the Pooka looked more angry than concerned.

And Jack, who had been too shocked to join in the fray, stood where he was in stunned silence.

“Nature, I don’t think you should-”

“Quiet, Pooka!” Nature snapped, her gaze never leaving the man in her arms. 

But in a way, he was no man anymore. There was simply nothing inside of him that resembled anything pertaining to a living, breathing man. This was just a hollow shell, a shell now housing the darkest entities this and every other world had ever seen. This was not a person anymore, no matter how he physically appeared so. He may represent a man, but his mind, heart, and very soul were gone. And in their places were the vile entities that haunted even the most courageous person’s dreams, the shadowy figures one would catch out of the corner of their eye in a dark room, the things one sees in the deepest depths of the ocean…

This was no man. This was a time bomb. 

But whether she was aware of this or not, or whether she wanted to acknowledge it or not, Nature held Pitch closer and tighter, her shoulders trembling as she glared hellfire and brimstone at the floor. 

“Leave us…” she said, so softly the others were not sure if they heard her right.

“Lady Nature…?” North inquired, voice slightly strained from the lingering pain of his cuff’s attack. 

“I said leave!” she snapped.

“But he-”

“LEAVE!” The Pooka lowered his ears from the shrill command, but made no further protest. 

Slowly, like children chastised by an irate adult, the Guardians all filed out of the room. Until only one remained. 

Jack swallowed, somehow feeling lost despite the blatant command from the nature spirit. She obviously did not want anyone, let alone the Guardians, in the same room as her and Pitch. He oddly could not blame her, considering they were the ones who had put Pitch, and everyone else, in such a situation in the first place. 

But he could not move. He could not find it in himself to walk out of that room and leave Nature and Pitch alone. He did not know why, but something inside of him was prompting him into trying to do something; to say _something._

“I told you to _leave_ …” Nature’s tone yielded no arguments, but her attempt to sound threatening was only stifled by the tremble of her voice, and the exhaustion present in her limp posture. 

Jack’s hand tightened around his staff, his free hand shoving into his hoodie pocket in a long learned habit. He paused, his fingers brushing against rough paper and metal in his pocket. He swallowed thickly, his fingers grazing the paper of the letter he had picked up from the opening of Pitch’s lair. 

“I…I don’t know what to say,” he said; he was at least honest, and he comforted himself on the fact itself that he was not trying to put on some air of trying to care too much. 

“What would a mere child like you know?” Nature rasped, “I do not expect you to know what to say, but I expect you to follow my orders and leave.”

Jack flinched, but did not comment. Because in a way, she was right; he was not expected to understand, nor was he expected to care in the slightest over what happened. Because in the beginning, he and the Guardians didn’t care what happened in the future. They did not think of what would happen to the world when fear was locked away, and they did not care enough to question whether their decision went too far and became far crueler than anything Pitch had ever done to them. 

And if Jack were to start being honest with himself, he, and the others at the time, really didn’t care about the future. They were like children; they never thought about the next day, about the consequences of actions they wrought onto others. A child could steal a candy bar from a store, but never once consider the consequences about being caught. And when they did get caught, their whole world shattered, not because they were caught, but because they disappointed and hurt someone; namely their parents. 

This was almost like what he and his fellow Guardians did. They did something terrible, by stealing fear from the world itself, from people who needed it. And later on, they were caught, and they had _hurt_ not only the children, but adults and other spirits. People and spirits alike were _dying_ right now. And if that wasn’t the ultimate consequence of being a child, then nothing short of the end of existence itself could outmatch their mistake. 

_Mistake_ …Jack almost laughed. Such an insignificant word. Mistakes were things made on accident, small little matters that could easily be resolved. A mistake was accidently stepping on someone’s foot in the movie theater. A mistake was getting the wrong order in a restaurant. A mistake was giving the wrong answer in a test.

This was not a simple _mistake._

He sighed. “Is…can I do anything…? Anything at all?”

“To what? Fix this mess? Are you asking if there is anything you can do to completely undo everything that has happened in the last fifty years?” was the scathing question.

Jack almost wanted to snap, but he didn’t. He knew damn well how dangerous Nature could be, and he was not about to test her ire when she was so obviously distressed. 

“No,” he said instead, “I mean…what can I do _now?_ What can I do to make this…at least a little bit better?”

Nature said nothing, not at first anyways. A beat passed before her shoulders sagged, and she shifted Pitch around until she was able to lift him into her arms, his head lolling back until he was staring at the room upside down. The petite woman moved him back towards the bed, setting him back onto the plush mattress, and rearranging the tousled blankets back in order. She draped the thick quilt back over him, but only around his waist. Satisfied, she took a basin of water from the nightstand, and produced a rag from the drawer. 

Soaking the rag and wringing it of the excess water, Nature proceeded to clean off the sweat and little grime from Pitch’s body, paying close attention to his blank face and hands. 

“Nothing,” she said softly, “There is nothing you can do…”

“But there has to be something!” Jack exclaimed, past calm now lost, “Please, I know I screwed up – we screwed up. But there has to be some way at least one of us can make this right. If not for Pitch’s sake, then for the other dark spirits!”

“What would you have me say, Frost?” Nature said tersely, not even looking at Jack, “There is _nothing_ someone like you can do. The only one with the power to fix this is Father Time, and he is sworn to never intervene to such a degree.”

“But why? Why can’t he just…I don’t know, turn back time and prevent us from doing this?”

Nature paused, her hand freezing over wiping down Pitch’s chest. Slowly, she turned to Jack, and the frost sprite was startled by the absolute scathing look she was giving him. 

“Because it is not his responsibility,” she seethed, “Believe me, I would love nothing more for him to wave his staff and prevent all of this from happening, but he cannot. Because _you_ are not his responsibility; the entire world is.”

“But what’s the difference?” Jack asked, slightly exasperated, “The whole world is effected by this! By what we did. Why can’t he just-”

“Frost,” Nature cut him off, turning back to Pitch solemnly, “Why do you not make it snow in Africa?"

Jack blinked, confused. “Well…because it isn’t meant to get snow. It goes against…well, you.”

“And why do you think that is?” Nature asked.

Jack bit his lip, uncertain as to how to answer the question. “Be…because it’s…”

“It’s because it is simply how things are,” Nature elaborated, “You do not always need a reason to explain things, you just need to know that it benefits the whole instead of the individual…

“Father Time is the same. He is not biased, he does not care for any individual, but the whole of the world. He cannot simply turn back time and stop you lot from completely ruining humanity, not because he has to deal with a few individuals, but because it is simply how things are.”

“I…I don’t understand,” Jack said, uncertain.

Mother Nature sighed. “Some things are simply meant to be. Both World Wars could have been prevented, but if they had been, things would be different now, and not for the better. If he refuses to change this situation, it is because the world will benefit from the aftermath, be it war or peace, destruction or unity…he simply knows all, and how it all should be.”

“But people and spirits are _dying!_ How does that benefit anyone?!” Jack snapped.

Nature scowled. “It benefits everyone the same way getting rid of Pitch benefited you. Less annoying fights, more belief in you from children.”

The comment was meant as a very low, very cruel blow, and Jack took it as such. But instead of arguing, he only sighed, his eyes stinging. He was so tired now, so tired of _everything…_

He looked over at Pitch, taking note of the closed eyes and slightly parted lips. He simply looked like he was sleeping, if a bit sickly. But such a façade was easily dismissed with what he and the others knew. He was not asleep; Jack wasn’t even sure if he could sleep. Even before all this, Jack never once really saw Pitch as a person. 

At least, not until their confrontation in Antarctica…

Lips tightening, Jack lowered his head.

“I’m sorry…” he said softly, before his hand tightened in a white-knuckle grip around his staff, “I _will_ fix this though. I promise, _I will fix this…!_ ”

Nature said nothing to this, and nor did Jack give her the time to respond. He bolted from the room and towards his room.

As he left, Nature paid no mind to the little mental ping from the cuff that alerted her of Jack leaving the pole for the second time. At this point, she simply did not care, and would not make good on her threat.

Not yet anyways…

 

****

**

~s~S~s~

**

****

 

The flight to Antarctica oddly went by quickly. Normally the trip to the South Pole from the North Pole would take a day, maybe two if he was feeling particularly slow. But oddly, the trip only took a few hours, Jack flying over continents and states that passed by under him in a blur. 

But even still, he could not help but wonder why he came to the barren wastes of the south. And even more so, he wondered why he came back to the same place he and Pitch had their confrontation fifty years ago…

The spire of ice and black sand still stood tall and proud, its frigid spires and points reaching towards the sky like desperate claws seeking the heavens. The sky was dark with the coming of night and the hazy fog of ice, and yet the spire seemed to glitter and glow. The gossamer particles of Nightmare sand glistened against the ice, and Jack ran a hand over the icy fortress of which he and Pitch had unconsciously created. 

Jack wondered if anything had ever come of it, as he had only visited it one other time fifty years ago, a few days after Pitch’s defeat. He didn’t know why he visited it that one time; he supposed a part of him felt guilty. Or perhaps he was wallowing in self-pity for himself, for nearly giving in to Pitch’s proposition. He really didn’t know, he just felt like going to visit the spire for some reason.

_‘Or perhaps you did not want to forget…’_ the voice said suddenly, startling Jack.

“Forget what?” he asked before he could think.

_‘About how human he seemed in that moment here…’_

Jack swallowed, hands tightening. He didn’t want to admit it but…the voice may be right. In a way, he didn’t want to see Pitch as the bad guy back then. And the most human, the most vulnerable he had seen Pitch was here in Antarctica, at the site of the spire’s creation. Maybe he just wanted to hold a memory of Pitch not as a monstrous being, but as someone who was just as hurt as Jack was back then…

Then again, now that he thought about it, the past _still_ hurt him. 

Jack sighed, turning and thumping back against the spire. Slowly, he slid down onto his rear in the hard snow, knees drawn up and head held in one hand.

“What am I even doing anymore…?” he asked aloud.

No answer was forthcoming. Oddly, he somewhat expected one from that strange voice he had grown accustomed to, but nothing was said. Not from himself, not from the voice, not even from the wind or ice itself. 

Rubbing his forehead, Jack stuffed his free hand into his hoodie pocket once more. He blinked, slowly taking the hand out, his thumb and index finger pinching the edge of the faded envelope he had procured from Pitch’s lair. He stared, slightly amazed and curious, as he flipped the letter this way and that. There was no name on it, neither from the sender or the receiver. There was, however, a small drawing of a flower in the upper right hand corner on the front of the envelope…

Faded as it was, Jack could only make out that it was a flower with six long, pointed petals, almost star-shaped in its bloom. Frowning, Jack considered the letter. There was obviously something in it, as the envelope felt thick and dense. Even with the paper as brittle as it was, the seal had long since been carefully broken, and opened various times in its life…

_‘Read it…’_

Jack didn’t question anything, and carefully flipped the lip of the envelope, and pulled out the aged and neatly folded parchment inside. Gently unfolding the papers – two in all – Jack stared at the elegant cursive scrawled on the worn and aged paper.

He swallowed, and soon began to read…

My Dearest Pitch,

It has been over ten years since I last saw you, and yet it feels as if a century has passed. Father Time must be feeling particularly mischievous, as our time apart has somehow become a never-ending freeze in time itself. How long must we stay away from you? How long must we, your subjects, suffer without your presence?

I know you told us to cease these letters, but how could we stay away? And truly, you know myself and the others enough to know we would not yield the request. And so I write to you, my King, in the hopes that we can still speak over the distance that has taken you from us.

How have you been? It has been literal ages since the others have seen you, Halistair and I being the last to see and speak with you. You seemed tired when we last spoke, defeated almost. Do you get lonely without us? Do you miss us as much as we miss you? Do you reminisce of the distant past? Of when we were all together and happy?

I remember how it would be just the four of us, listening to you read us the newest childhood stories, or you would be at your piano and play us a long, lovely song. I miss those days the most, where we would all gather in your chambers and listen to you speak or play. 

Jack blinked, a bit taken aback. Pitch played the piano? Well, now that he thought about it, it wasn’t as surprising as it sounded. Pitch had long, thin fingers that would be perfect for the piano or string instrument. And this person, they knew Hal. How far back exactly did he and Pitch go?

Do you still play the piano? I can imagine that old thing still in your parlor, the keys worn lovingly, and the sheet music aging by the day, yet never to turn to dust. I suppose I am being nostalgic, but I also know those days can never fully be taken back. Samhain’s passing was a hard blow for all of us, but none more so than Halistair and you…

So he and Samhain, Hal’s former master, were close too. Jack had to wonder just how deep the bond was between Pitch and Hal. If they went so far back that Pitch was friends with Hal’s master, and in turn got to know Hal through him, it made him wonder just how much Jack and the Guardians had truly taken from the Homunculus…

I miss him, and I imagine you do too. He was such a kind, wonderful man. Though he couldn’t tame that outrageous mane of his, he was still a good man, as all three of us can attest to. I can remember quite fondly how, as a young spirit, Halistair would braid his hair. You even let Halistair on a few occasions braid yours!

Jack blinked. Hal…braided Pitch’s hair…if it were under any other circumstance, Jack would have laughed uproariously. But in this situation, he instead wondered how that was possible. Pitch had short hair, but did he wear it longer back in the day?*

Disliber keeps coming to me, asking if we have spoken recently. He has also asked Halistair and other souls closer to you. He won’t say it, but he misses you so much. We all do. But none more so than Halistair and I. Do you miss us as well? I am certain you do not miss the rather immature antics of our younger souls.

My King, won’t you write back to us? I know I am not the only one to write a letter to you. Halistair has confided in me of writing numerous letters to you, almost daily. You know he means well. He looks up to you, and he loves you so much, just as he did Samhain.

Love…Hal _loved_ Pitch…just how much did he take away from the Homunculus? If not a friend, perhaps another father figure? A brother? A beloved king? Or perhaps all three…?

This will be my 54th letter to you in the past year. I cannot remember how many it is I sent in the last ten years though, likely hundreds, perhaps thousands. I hope you write back this time though. I truly miss you, my King. We all do, and a single letter from you would do our heavy hearts so much good. 

Please my King, just one letter. Just one, and we can go on with a peace of mind we have not yet known in over 1,000 years. It’s all I ask. If anything, please reply to Halistair. He still brings you candy I hear, leaving a small bag at the edge of the opening to your lair*. It always vanishes when he leaves, and he hopes it is you who takes it, and not some wayward human or animal.

I hope at least one of us will hear back from you, my King. We truly miss you. And just so you know, the artifacts are still safe and secure. Halistair guards the one you entrusted to him even more so than Cerberus does the gate to his realm*. And I still hold what you entrusted to me.

I trust your own keep is still safe? I certainly hope so. Times are becoming more difficult for us dark spirits, and anyone could steal the throne away from you if we are not careful. Please be careful, my King. 

Please, let us protect you, just as you have protected us for all our lives. We will not let you falter, never let anyone topple you from the throne that is rightfully yours. You are our King, our father, our brother. 

You are our God. 

I must end my letter here now unfortunately. My King, please be well, and do not let anyone tell you who and what to be. You know who you are, and I hope you never forget it. You are a beloved King, and a beloved friend. 

The night be with you, my King. 

With love and regards,

~Sorrows.

Jack stared at the letter, both parts conflicted, guilty, and somehow even more confused than he originally was. He re-read the letter over and over again, each glance over of every word only adding another heavy weight to the burden in his heart. 

What he was reading now, he would not once think it was for Pitch Black. Not even once would he think it was for Pitch had he not been mentioned in the letter, and the fact that he was the receiver of the letter. It only added onto the already bubbling self-loathing inside Jack. Because even now, his biased thoughts towards Pitch still remained. He still saw him as the monster who terrorized kids and wished to rid the world of the Guardians.

But he wasn’t.

No, in this letter, he was a person – more than just a person. He was someone cherished, guarded, loved beyond all reason. He was a King, a brother, a father – he was a God to his people. 

Beloved, revered, and worshipped. Not just for what he was, but for who he was. And Jack had only caught a glimpse of the person Pitch truly was, right here in Antarctica. 

And he had _rejected_ that small glimpse.

Jack groaned, screwing his eyes shut to keep the tears from flowing. How long…how long had he been so blind? How long had he been in such a deep ocean of denial? How long had he simply been not Jack Frost, but just a Guardian? 

When had he forgotten who he was…?

_‘What have I done…?’_ he wondered ruefully, shoulders shaking.

He hadn’t helped the Guardians lock away and break a nuisance and a bother. He hadn’t helped to mentally and emotionally murder a mere shade…

He had helped to murder a God.

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes.
> 
> 1.) If you have read the books, you will have run across an illustration or two of Pitch in the book series. In the books, he has some pretty outrageous, spiky hair. It is rather long though, at least in his first illustration. As this letter is speaking of a far off past, I used some book elements to subtly imply that Pitch had longer hair in the past. Not as crazy as the books, but longer and wilder if you will. 8P
> 
> 2.) On Halloween, Hal will often leave little bags of treats outside the doors of other spirits, and even some humans he thinks need a few extra sweets. All of his candy is handmade by him and a few other bakers/candy makers in Sleepy Hallow. He NEVER gets the store bought candy. He thinks giving store bought candy is just too impersonal, plus all the artificial stuff in candy makes candy taste weird. Though he is not above purchasing a candy bar every now and again - good ones, usually from novelty candy stores. 
> 
> 3.) In Hal's realm, he has a giant, three-headed dog stationed at a great set of gates. The Cerberus of his realm is the decedent of the Cerberus of Greek mythology, and is actually a bit smaller than his ancestor. The tri-headed canine guards these gates dutifully and fiercely. None have ever gotten past him - not in one piece at least.
> 
> ~S~


	13. A Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, quick update. LOL  
> Please enjoy! We're getting to the juicy bits now people, so hold onto your hats!

The hush of the sighing wind was what roused Jack from his restless slumber. Blinking hazily, Jack rubbed his eyes, groaning as the muscles of his sore neck and back protested at the movements. Rubbing at his neck, Jack looked around, blinking wearily. The sky was just starting to dim into dusk, the already dark environment now almost completely black. 

Jack looked upwards, wincing as his neck popped audibly. The spire above him still reached up towards the sky, clawing at the haze and fog that surrounded it. Jack’s breath came out as visible puffs of foggy air, curling around his face before vanishing completely into thin air. His glacial eyes narrowed, trying to catch light as he surveyed his surroundings. 

“Can’t believe I fell asleep here…” he muttered ruefully. 

Which was a bit odd, because prior to him becoming a Guardian, he could sleep literally anywhere; and he did sleep anywhere. In trees, on roofs, on top of cars, he even once fell asleep clinging to the horizontal neck of a street lamp. But not anymore it seemed. Perhaps he had gotten spoiled from his years of sleeping in an actual bed for so long…

Sighing, he turned to look at the base of the spire of which he was leaned against. He stared into it for a moment, before something caught his eye. 

He frowned, slowly and quietly turning to fully look into the slightly transparent ice and sand. Eyes narrowed, he leaned in close, taking in the thin, shadowy form. It moved just the slightest bit, startling Jack. He swallowed, suddenly on edge.

Someone else was here with him.

Just on the other side of the spire, someone else was here. Jack gripped his staff firmly, jaw set. His nerves were on edge, heart pounding thunderously in his narrow chest. He shifted into a crouch, slowly starting to edge around the spire’s base.

“Hello?” he called, all the while keeping his gaze locked on the figure’s silhouette. 

The person said nothing, only shifted ever so slightly, as if it were leaning its weight against the spire itself. Jack moved closer atop the snow itself, never making a sound. 

“Hello?” he called again.

No response was given to him, somehow both unsurprising yet irritating. It made the frost sprite wonder; was this person – or thing – a dark spirit? Was it one of the Guardians? No, the figure didn’t match any of the Guardians’ build; it was too tall to be Tooth or Sandy, too thin to be North, and did not boast Bunny’s ears. If anything, it almost looked like…

Jack felt himself gasp quietly, vision swimming briefly in shock. His hands shook, his wide eyes gaping at the shadowy figure through the ice. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He almost had to force himself to lick his chapped lips, his tongue as dry and rough as sandpaper. His voice was choked, caught in his throat like some poor insect in a spider’s web. 

He struggled with himself, nearly wrestling with his very body to get out a simple sound. Finally, taking in a strangled, shaky breath, he called out weakly.

“P…Pitch?” he rasped, his voice weak and high.

The form stilled, as frozen as the ice that separated Jack from it. No words were said, but a slight movement up where the head should be moved ever so slightly. Jack felt the eyes on him, the intensity in which they stared. The gaze was unseen, but he felt it like twin daggers pushing into his chest, painful and sharp, digging into his very lungs with their poisonous tips. 

He swallowed, jaw tightening. Slowly, as if any movement those eyes saw could mean the end of everything he knew, Jack shuffled around the spire. Step by cautious step, his feet shuffled soundlessly atop the snow, never once leaving a footprint. And yet still, those unseen eyes followed him, despite him not being able to see clearly if they were following him or not. But he knew. He knew they were looking at him, watching his each and every movement. He felt like a mouse being leered at by a hawk, hackles rising as butterflies seemed to flutter uncomfortably in his gut. 

He placed a hand on the spire, slowly drawing himself nearer, his staff clutched in a vice grip. He toed along the edge of the spire’s shadow, where the man he thought he had destroyed lay hiding. He took a breath, as if he were about to plunge into frigid black waters, and swiftly jumped out of hiding to face who he thought was Pitch.

But he saw nothing. No one was there. There wasn’t even a footprint to so much as even suggest there had been anyone there. 

Confused, Jack blinked uncertainly, and yet so very sure he had seen someone there. The heavy gaze he had felt had not been a mere figment of his imagination, he knew it wasn’t. But he was only confronted with empty air. No one was there, and there was no proof of anyone having been there. 

“Pitch…?” he called tentatively. 

No answer. Not that he would honestly expect one, but a part of him had hoped the Boogeyman would respond. Either with a sinister chuckle or a taunt, Jack only hoped he would hear something other than the roaring silence. 

He lowered his staff, shoulders slumping and head lowering. He had to wonder, was he going mad? Was his guilt and anger so palpable that he was seeing and feeling things that weren’t there? But it had been so vivid, so _real_. The eyes he felt on him, their gold and silver coloring unseen, yet the weight of their intensity was like a lead weight compressing his chest. 

He swallowed again, his eyes burning. What was he doing? What was happening to him? What was going to happen to Pitch?

Hands shaking in their white-knuckled grasp on his staff, Jack looked to the sky. Nothing but clouds greeted him, the yawning abyss of blackness past them darkening the grey clouds. Jack was oddly reminded of Pitch’s skin tone. Like overcast, a granite-like canvas of dusky black and grey, the only colors being within his eyes. He could recall asking Baby-Tooth what Pitch’s skin had felt like when he had held her clutched in his hand. She had had a bit of trouble describing it at first, before she seemed to settle on the feeling of stone. 

He felt like a hot stone, she had said. His hands had been hot, feverish almost, and though the grip had been painful, it had been slightly appreciated when they were in Antarctica. She had actually been quite surprised. Looking at Pitch, people would think he was cold, frigid even, like a corpse. But this was not so apparently; Pitch held within his very bones a fiery resolve that seeped through his very skin and into whatever he was touching. Whether this force of energy was his shadow powers, or some other unknown element, Jack was not sure. He only knew that Pitch likely felt very cold now…

Jack’s eyes blurred, tears pooling in the glacial irises. He took in a shaking breath, and lowered his gaze to the ground. He stared at his blue-tinged toes, the image now not but a blur of white, blue, and pale skin tone. 

“Please…” he whispered, almost as silent as the Antarctic wind, “Please…tell me what to do. Show me what to do. I can’t do this alone, I know that now. Please…”

He choked, screwing his eyes shut to will the tears away. He opened them again, vision clearer, but the tears did not relent. He gasped a sob, his chest tight and his throat seeming to close up.

No sound was heard; not a voice, not the wind. Even the roaring silence seemed to completely fall into a soundless quiet. The hush of pure silence, of soundlessness and stillness. 

It only highlighted how utterly loud the next sound was.

Jack startled, looking up and towards the cliff that hung over him and the spire.

A swath of black caught his eyes, before vanishing into a crag he never even noticed in the side of the mountainous glacier. He gasped, eyes wide as he stepped closer to the tall, narrow opening. He looked inside, and only caught yet another brief glimpse of soft black fabric vanishing behind a small turn. And he recognized the drag of that fabric, the mere glimpse of a familiar cloak of black.

With no small amount of eagerness, Jack scrambled into the crag, wiggling through narrower areas and kicking snow about as he struggled to catch up. 

“Wait…!” he called; or so that’s what he had tried to do. His plea sounded more like a raspy whisper, his voice somehow sinking into his gut, sounding so much further away than it should be. 

“Wait…!” he called again, but once more, his call only came out as a strangled whisper.

He pushed through the passage, with every turn catching just a glimpse of the end of his target’s cloak. Nothing else was seen to distinguish who he was following as Pitch. But he knew, he somehow just _knew_ it was him. 

“Pitch!” he called, his voice just barely gaining volume.

But no answer was forthcoming, much to Jack’s despair. But he pushed on, never once stopping to catch his breath, or even question just where he was going. Slowly, the cavern was getting bigger, more spacious and easier to traverse. He no longer had to sidestep through passages or bend his way around turns. And by the time it had expanded into a narrow hallway, Jack was sprinting, not even thinking of calling the wind to his aid in the chase. 

Running, his feet slapping against solid ice now, Jack seemed to vibrate with excitement and adrenaline. He clutched at his hoodie pocket, as if trying to feel if the key and letter were still there. The crinkle of paper and the solid weight of the key seemed to comfort him, but he did not stop. Rather, he sped up, turning down a corner one final time, until he came to an abrupt stop. 

He stood there, speechless, as he stared into the small, round cavern. The ice seemed to stop halfway over the dome the cavern formed, instead dissipating into blackened stone. The stone wall it formed in the cave’s back was fragmented, as if it was the last remaining piece of an ancient structure. A stone archway housed an iron door, the heavy iron handle ominous. 

And just before that door, a single thin hand resting on the knob, was Pitch. 

In that moment, Jack thought time had stopped. The Boogeyman looked ethereal. It had been more than fifty years since Jack last saw him without that sickly, haunted look in his eyes. It had been so long since he saw Pitch in good health, and even longer still since he regarded him as anything but a man. But here he was, standing before a door, dressed in his cloak and leggings, his eyes clear and focused. His skin was like overcast, a soft grey that reminded Jack of granite. It was as if the events over the last fifty years had never happened. 

Jack felt his eyes water once more, his knees weak and shaking. He had the unsightly urge to run to the Boogeyman and embrace him, to get down on his very knees and beg Pitch forgiveness for what he had done to him. But he was frozen, stuck to the very spot he stood in. It was as if his very powers had rebounded, binding him like an ice sculpture to the earth. 

But he had to do something; he had to say something. He didn’t know why, but he just had to. 

“Pitch…” he rasped, voice shot and choked, “Pitch…I-”

The Boogeyman startled Jack as he moved a finger up to his dark lips in a shushing gesture. Jack shut his mouth immediately, back straightening. His breathing was fast and ragged, almost like he had run a marathon. Then again, with how he had pursued Pitch, he wouldn’t be surprised if that was the reason he seemed so breathless. Or perhaps the shock factor played a small role in it as well. 

But even still, Pitch said nothing. Instead, he turned to look at the door, observing it with a strange mask displaying a mixture of peace and resignation. His long, slender fingers gripped the handle, and pushed it down. A loud, metallic click was heard, echoing loudly off the walls of the cavern. He opened it, and stared into its gaping abyss.

Jack could see nothing inside, except blackness. Not a hallway, not a room, just nothing but _black_. 

Pitch turned to look back at Jack over his shoulder, his expression weary. Jack swallowed, wanting to move closer to the Boogeyman so badly. But he could not, and more than that, he would not. So instead, he found strength and spoke.

“Why…?” was all he could seem to muster up, and he chastised himself for making so little sense and asking such a senseless question. 

But Pitch did not mock Jack or ridicule him like one would expect. Instead, he did the strangest thing; he smiled, small and tired, at Jack. 

“It is time you knew…” he said.

And before Jack could say anything else, Pitch turned back towards the mouth of the door, and walked inside of it. He vanished, falling into the black like a stone into the abyss. With an earth-shattering creak, the door began to close…

And the moment it clicked shut, Jack woke up. 

His breath caught in his throat, Jack flew upright from his horizontal position on the icy ground, clutching his throat. Choking on a gasp and a bit of spittle, Jack lurched onto his hands and knees, coughing wetly into the snow. His moment of ragged air and tight throat passed after a few moments, and he was left with a pounding in his temples. 

Groaning, he held his forehead and sat back onto his rear, crossing his legs. He rubbed his eyes, peeking through his hands at the landscape.

Ice, sleet, more ice, and hard snow. He was still in Antarctica…

He blinked, flabbergasted, at his surroundings. He veered this way and that, looking behind him at the icy spire of Nightmare sand and his surroundings. Swallowing, Jack stood up on shaky legs, clutching his staff as he sprinted around the spire. He circled it numerous times, changing the direction each time. And after his tenth time circling the spire, it became apparent to Jack. 

He was alone. No one was there. Not the Guardians, no dark spirits, not even Pitch…

“But…but how?” he wondered aloud, “It felt so real…”

And it truly had felt real. He could still feel the soreness of his feet slapping harshly against the frozen ground and on shards of ice. His lungs still hurt, short of breath from his sprint after the Boogeyman. He could still even feel the drying tears prickling at his eyes, irritating yet familiar. 

Shoulders sagging, Jack leaned against the spire in exhaustion, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“What the hell is going on…?” he rasped. 

No answer came, which seemed to irritate Jack. It seemed that whenever the voice in his head actually spoke, it was when he didn’t want to hear it. And when he did wish to hear it, it was as silent as the grave. 

He looked up towards the sky. By now it was still evening, but the sky was still partly lit by the more brightly hued overcast clouds. No Moon was seen beyond the clouds, and Jack was very much grateful for this. He didn’t know what he would do – or say – if he saw the Moon again. Manny hadn’t shown himself since they opened Pitch’s lair. He hadn’t even made an appearance when Pitch was taken to the Workshop. 

Jack had to wonder; was Manny hiding? Was he ashamed of himself? Or did he not want to deal with the baleful looks he was likely to get from the dark spirits? Or perhaps, did he not want to confront him and the other Guardians, not wishing to answer their questions or correct their confusion? 

Jack scowled at the sky, before lowering his gaze to the ground. He eyed his bound wrist, the vine-like snake tightly wound about the bony limb. Flexing his hand, the bind seemed to tighten ever so slightly, and then loosened when he relaxed. He sighed, leaning back against the spire. Slowly, he slid down onto his rear, knees drawn up and head lolling back to gaze blankly at the sky.

“What am I gonna do…?” he sighed. 

He felt so lost. So alone. He hadn’t felt like this since before he became a Guardian. But back then, he had been free, with no ties to anyone or anything. He had been like the wind. There was never any destination, nor was there any reason to rest or stop. He simply went and did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. That anonymity was missed at times, and Jack often wondered what it would be like if he had never accepted that Guardianship. Would he eventually be seen by kids in time? Would he be making his own way still, wandering aimlessly throughout the world? 

Or would he be somewhere else? Would another spirit have picked him up like a lost little pup, taken him in and raised him under their own wing? Would he belong somewhere else that wasn’t with the suffocating grip of the Guardians? Would he thrive under someone other than the Moon, the very being who brought him back to life? Where would he be right now?

_‘Would I maybe be with Pitch…?’_ he wondered. 

A part of him said no. But a bigger part of him said yes, that it wouldn’t be as bad as he made it sound. If he were honest with himself, Jack knew next to nothing about Pitch; not truly anyways. He didn’t know anything about anyone it seemed…

Jack lowered his chin, fingering at his staff absently. He felt so strange, conflicted almost. He felt like there were two ropes attached to his arms, and he was being tugged in opposite directions by two unknown forces. Drawn tight and strained, he felt like he would be torn in half if he didn’t fight one of these forces and choose which way he wanted to go. 

He paused, looking up and towards the cliff that hung over the spire. He frowned, slowly getting to his feet. Walking around the spire, he eyed the sheer wall, the very same wall he had seen in his dream.

And right there in the middle of it, hidden by a jagged outcrop, was the crag he had seen in his dream. 

Jack swallowed, amazed and disturbed. His heart was pounding, and a strange force was tugging him towards the narrow passage that led into the unknown. He didn’t know why, or how it was possible, but he felt like he had to check it out. He felt like he needed to see, to validate what it was his dream meant. 

He made to move towards the crag, but was stopped by another tugging sensation.

_‘Not yet…’_ the voice said, _‘Go back first.’_

Jack blinked, dumbfounded. But no, the voice was right. He couldn’t just up and leave on some kind of adventure, he had to go check on the others now. And Pitch. He had to see Pitch one more time. 

Casting one last look to the crag, Jack steeled his resolve and took off into the air once more, leaving behind the tower of shadows and ice. 

 

****

**~s~S~s~**

 

Arguing. That was the first thing Jack could hear when he entered the Workshop through a window just outside North’s office. Though what the arguing was about, he could not tell. He could only speculate that it was about Pitch, or possibly Mother Nature. Or maybe even both. 

He could hear North growling in Russian, and Bunny was shouting at him, his curses muffled through the thick wooden door. Another voice soon joined in, female obviously, but it was not Tooth. Jack shuddered. He always knew Mother Nature was a force to reckon with, but hearing her outwardly angry and yelling sent a shudder down his spine. Their shadows stretched from under the narrow gap under the door, moving swiftly yet abruptly in different movements.

Jack flinched as he heard something break loudly. Whether whatever it was that broke was dropped or thrown, he could not tell. He only knew that he was not going to be a part of whatever the argument was about. 

“You have destroyed him!” he heard Nature scream, a bang following after, “He is no longer even a person, he is but a shell, a prison for those _things!_ ”

More muffled shouting. Jack could just scarcely hear North trying to calm the situation, but with how he was also bellowing his anger and confusion, he wasn’t doing a very good job of it. If anything, he only seemed to be making it worse. 

“Why did no one tell us then?!” Bunny yelled.

“Because you were _never_ meant to take things this far!” Nature yelled back, “Never, ever should anyone be allowed to simply lock up someone who is bothering them, do you throw everyone who irritates you into a spiraling madness that could mean the end of the world?!”

Jack winced, and no sooner moved away from the door. He could not afford to be caught, let alone hear any more of what was being said. He couldn’t handle it, not now, and probably not ever. Instead, Jack shuffled quietly down the hall, looking at the numerous doors that led into even more rooms. 

He paused, staring at the familiar door that led into Pitch’s room. It was closed, but there was the faintest bit of orange light sliding out from under the door. He swallowed, hands clutching at his staff. A part of him wanted to leave the Pole again, to be anywhere but right there. But another part of him wanted to see Pitch again, to somehow reaffirm that this was _real_. He needed to see that what was happening right now to the world was reality, not the wondrous, happy world that he thought they all thrived in. 

And yet, what would he do if he were caught? Would Nature even want one of the people who imprisoned Pitch near him? He certainly wouldn’t doubt that she wanted nothing to do with them, unless it was to give a means to their punishment and pain. 

Jack eyed the snake-like vine about his wrist, grimacing slightly. The blank, soulless eyes of the snake glowered up at him, but made no move to harm him. Not yet, not while he could predict it…

He stood before the door now, hand held up in a paused reach for the doorknob. He swallowed, before grasping the knob, and turning it. The latch clicked loudly, nearly deafening to Jack. But nonetheless, he opened the door and peeked the slightest bit inside. He almost sighed in relief.

Hal was in the room with Pitch, sitting at his bedside in Nature’s stead. Hunched over ever so slightly, so unlike the usually upright and proud Homunculus, Hal looked like he had barely gotten any sleep. His eyes were glassy, the edges puffy and tinged orange, as if he had been crying. Small candles were lit about the room, casting it in a soft, sleepy orange glow, explaining the light Jack saw. 

And upon the bed, Pitch lay flat on his back, eyes shut and motionless. His narrow chest slowly rose and fell in a slow, yet shaky, tandem to his breath. He was asleep. 

Or so Jack could only assume. 

Hal made no move to acknowledge Jack, not even as the sprite entered the room and softly closed the door behind him, sealing himself within the dimly lit room with its dark occupants. Mouth dry, Jack stood where he was, unsure as to what he should be doing. He could see Hal and Pitch just mere feet away from him, and yet he felt like he was miles away from his friend and once arch nemesis. 

It made Jack wonder; just when had he started to drift from his friend? He met Hal a couple years after becoming a Guardian, and they had gotten on just great. It came to a point where North expressed a bit of concern because he and Hal were spending so much time together. They had been so close, laughing at the dumbest of things, helping with pranks with Harley, gorging themselves on sweets, talking about the most mundane of things…

And yet, somewhere along the way, they began to drift. When had it started? When had it started from seeing Hal almost every day, to becoming once every week, to a month, to a year, to putting ten years between them? When had this truly started? When did they both start to hurt and hide from one another…?

“What is it, Jack?”

Jack startled, looking up with wide eyes at Hal. The Homunculus did not look at Jack, but his words reached him loud and clear. He swallowed, blinking slowly. The Homunculus placed a hand upon the bed, near one of Pitch’s smaller, thinner hands. 

“What do you want?” he probed.

“I…” Jack shook his head, uncertain. “I just…I just wanted to see him…I guess.”

Hal nodded, but said no more. Jack shuffled his feet, leaning from one foot to the other in a nervous habit. No words were spoken, no movements outside of Jack’s fidgeting were made. But the silence was suffocating, eating away at Jack like a parasite. He had to say something to frighten the silence away.

“Where…where’s Patrick?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound too forced.

“He went to deliver news of Pitch’s condition to the other dark spirits,” was Hal’s short response. 

Jack nodded, looking down at the floor. He knew not what to say, what to do. What do you say to someone you hurt so much? What do you say to a person who was so obviously devoted and connected to someone you virtually destroyed without an ounce of remorse? How do you fix something so utterly broken…?

Jack sighed, moving closer to the two spirits. He looked over Hal’s shoulder, and at Pitch. He looked so frail, sickly. He could never call Pitch such things when they had first met, but now, here in this room, with him lying so still in bed, Jack was oddly reminded of a lost, starving little fawn that had been abandoned a few winters ago. He could recall trying to help it, bringing it food and directing it to water and meager shelter. But his efforts were for naught, and the little fawn had died days later, lying frozen, glassy eyes staring lifelessly at Jack when he came to bring it some berries. 

Those eyes had haunted Jack’s dreams for almost a year, the guilt having eaten away half of his very soul. He had cried so hard after the little deer had died, alone and cold. He had told as much to the Guardians, hoping they would give him some form of comfort or reassurance. But all he got was a sigh and a shake of the head.

“It is life, Jack,” North said easily, “Animals die every day, old and young, just like humans. It cannot be helped.”

That wasn’t what he wanted. He never wanted to hear such a cold, heartless thing ever again. But in the back of his mind, Jack had agreed with North. There was no such thing as a perfect world, let alone a world where no one dies. If such a place existed, there would be no need for him or the Guardians. It was no place for a spirit, nor was it any place for a dark spirit. Their lives depended on other’s misery, other’s hopelessness and dreamless sleep. 

_‘Misery love’s its company…’_ Jack thought, swallowing thickly. 

“…how is he?” he asked suddenly, not even taking a moment to consider his words. 

He cringed as Hal tensed, his pointed ears pressing against his head. 

“I…I’m sorry, I-I didn’t mean-”

“He sleeps,” Hal said, cutting Jack off, “But he does not dream.”

Jack nodded stiffly. “Does…he have nightmares…?”

Hal said nothing, and made no move of clarification. He could only shake his head uncertainly, his hand placing itself over Pitch’s. 

“I do not know,” he said, “I sense no energy of dreams or nightmares from him, but nor do I sense his consciousness. It is as if his mind is leaving his body when he sleeps…like he has been separated from his body.”

Though confused, Jack nodded, looking over at Pitch once more. He slept with an oddly relaxed facial expression. One would think he would scowl even in his sleep, or frown. But here he was, simply asleep, his brow relaxed and his face devoid of angry lines and dark creases. His dark lips set in a neutral, relaxed position, thin and glistening like black gloss. His dark lashes did not even so much as flutter, fanned over his high cheeks, his eyes still and motionless behind his lids. 

It made Jack wonder; what did Pitch dream about? He could vaguely recall Sandy’s Dreamsand forming butterflies over his head when the Sandman had come back and knocked Pitch unconscious. But why butterflies? What did that even mean? 

Jack looked over at Hal, noting the Homunculus’ weary expression. He was tired, but vigilant; stubborn in a way only Hal could be. 

Mouth thinning, Jack sighed and stuffed his free hand into his hoodie pocket. His fingers immediately found the rough paper of the letter, and the cold metal of the key. Jack had half a mind to ask just what the key went to, as it was Hal who gave it to him. But another, larger part of him reasoned that Hal was likely not going to tell Jack. More likely than not, he was only going to tell Jack that he had to figure it out for himself. 

But another question nagged at him…

“Who’s Sorrows?” he asked.

Hal was motionless, but his ears pricked up and fanned out ever so slightly, his gold and black earrings glistening in the candlelight*. Jack waited, both parts apprehensive yet anxious. Finally, Hal relaxed slightly, turning to stare into the flame of a candle by the bedside.

“You know her, Jack,” he said, “We’ve all seen her, felt her, heard her voice. She is someone everyone meets eventually, not long after you’re born.”

Jack almost scowled. More of these cryptic messages, he was getting quite fed up with all these passive answers people were giving him. He wanted straight, actual answers that made sense, answers he could work with. Answers that could help him in fixing this whole mess. 

“I don’t understand…” he muttered sourly.

Hal shrugged, much to Jack’s agitation. “But you do. You just don’t realize it yet.”

Jack gritted his teeth, but forced himself to calm down. Getting mad at Hal was not going to solve or fix anything. If anything, it would only make things worse. 

“Look, Hal, I’m…” He paused, trying to find the right words. “I want to fix this. I don’t want anything else, I just want things to be _normal_ again. I don’t care what it takes, I just need some help. I don’t know what to do, or where to start, so just _please_. Cut the cryptic crap and _help me_.”

Finally, Hal turned to look at Jack. He didn’t hold any particular expression aside from a somewhat searching frown. His white pupils narrowed into cat-like slits, disturbing Jack. He had always been a bit unnerved by Hal’s eyes, their light reflective surface and haunting, vivid color. But nonetheless, he did not back down. 

“Please Hal, I know I can fix this somehow! I just…I just need some help,” he said meekly.

Hal still stared at Jack, as if searching. His dark lips* – so much like Pitch’s – thinned into a wide, scrutinizing line. His eyes narrowed in what most would presume to be a glare, but Jack knew better. Hal was thinking, scrutinizing and processing his thoughts a mile a minute. 

Startling Jack, he fully turned and stood. He crossed his arms, chin raised and expression unyielding. Though Hal was actually a couple inches shorter than Jack*, he somehow seemed to stand taller than Jack. He seemed to loom over him, his stance firm and straight. He was a soldier ready to battle; or perhaps a knight ready to protect his king. 

“What would you do, Jack?” he asked, his voice a perfect match to his stance and looming form, “What would you do to save him? What would you give up to save all of us?”

Jack swallowed. “An-…anything.”

“Even your Guardianship?” Hal asked without hesitation. 

Jack reeled back, suddenly dizzy with disbelief. What Hal had just asked him, it should have never left the Homunculus’ lips. Never had Jack once considered leaving the Guardians – leaving his entire life behind, his belief. And yet…

_‘What would you give up? Is he worth it to you?’_ the voice asked, sounding far closer and louder to Jack.

The frost spite looked at Pitch, eyes wide. His heart ached, his throat tightening as he stared at the Boogeyman. He was so hurt, so lost and frail. He was a king without his crown, toppled from his throne like a discarded ragdoll. And if he were to look further into this situation, Jack just knew; Pitch was going to die soon. 

And after that, he could only imagine what would happen to the world if fear died.

_‘I did this…’_ he thought sadly. 

He sighed, looking back at Hal.

“At this point, I’d take his place if I could…” he said.

“That doesn’t answer the question.” The sharp, curt way he said it seemed to cut through Jack like a knife. 

He winced, trying to reel in his resolve, to no avail. He wasn’t like Hal. He couldn’t call upon some mantle of dignity and pride and drape it over himself as easily and swiftly as Hal. Jack envied Hal for his unique ability to wear his dignity like a garment, and somehow interchange it like a chameleon’s skin. 

But then again, he was the Spirit of Change and Transcendence, it was his job to have these rapid, interchangeable aspects and traits. He brought change to the world. He turned the leaves to fire in autumn, he brought rebirth and rejuvenation by burning forests and fields, only for them to regrow anew. He brought silence and rest to those who had parted, and provided sanctuary for those who had been shunned by everyone else. And Jack…he was only the Guardian of Fun. What did he give to the world? He only gave to children, and little else. At least not on purpose anyways. He was snowballs and fun times. Hal was hard work, change, fire, and a willful resolve to rival Nature herself*. 

He was not limited. He was not held on a leash. Hal would never allow himself to bend and bow like Jack did to the Moon and the other Guardians’ whims. 

Hal was free. Jack was not. Not anymore. 

So then, why was he so hesitant…?

“Jack,” Hal started, starling the sprite. He looked into Jack’s eyes fiercely, that fire behind his eyes flickering and thrashing like a trapped and bound animal. 

“Would you give up your Guardianship for him?” he asked again, almost gently this time. He almost sounded like he was pleading.

Jack swallowed, staring at Hal with wide eyes. But he didn’t even need to think anymore.

“Yes,” he said.

Hal didn’t nod or say anything, but he did back down slightly, his posture relaxing. But he did not completely let his guard down, and he still somehow was able to stare Jack down. 

“Would you?” he asked.

Jack nodded.

Hal let out a breath through his nose, his frown lightening. His arms fell to his sides, and he regarded Jack critically. A beat passed, before Hal suddenly turned and sat down back by Pitch’s side. 

“Then go back,” he said.

Jack blinked, dumbfounded. Go back? Go back to _where?_ He thought they were past the cryptic words, he needed an actual answer now! 

_‘Go back,’_ the voice said urgently, _‘Back to where you first saw Pitch as not a monster, but a hurt man.’_

Jack blinked, suddenly understanding. He looked at Hal, almost stunned. Shoulders relaxing slightly, he turned towards the door to leave.

“Thank you,” he muttered.

Hal said nothing in reply, but Jack comforted himself in knowing he likely heard him at least. Closing the door behind him, Jack rushed back down the hall and to the nearest window. He grabbed the latch, about to throw it open, but was stopped.

“And where the hell are you going, frostbite?”

Jack froze, not even turning to regard the Pooka. He looked into the window, catching the large rabbit’s scowling reflection in the glass. He didn’t move, and instead felt like those hunter green eyes had captured him in relentless claws. There was no escape now…

He said nothing, not responding to the impatiently staring Pooka. But he knew. He knew that Bunny did not just turn a corner and see him go for the window. This was no coincidence. Bunny knew.

Jack felt sweat break out along his temples, his hand on the latch, yet unable to turn it and bolt out to his very means of escape. 

But even still, he somehow received a saving grace.

_‘Do you want to save him?’_ the voice asked.

Jack glared at the Pooka through the glass. He let go of the latch, and let his arm fall to his side. 

He turned and faced Bunny.

“Yes.”

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes.
> 
> 1.) Another expressive part of Hal's anatomy. Most darks spirits have these larger, and longer pointed ears and extremely keen hearing. His ears are pointed and elf-like, longer than normal human-like ears. They are also somewhat conical at the base, almost like a fusion of deer and human ears. They can fan, lower, perk, and flatten against his head. They don't have the same range of motion as animals with larger ears, but they boast more movement than normal ears. He decks them out with gold and black metal earrings and cuffs. But these do not in any way alter his extremely keen hearing. 
> 
> 2.) Another common trait for dark spirits. Their lips are often naturally black and glossy. It is not known why some dark spirits have black - or very dark colored - lips, but some say it is a trait of a pure dark lineage that runs within the first few generations closest to Pitch (immediate relatives to Pitch, for lack of better term). 
> 
> 3.) At his current age in this story, Hal stands around 5 foot 10. Though it is not a solid statement, it is theorized that Jack is about a solid 6 feet, as in the movie, he is said to be either 16 to 18 years old (as a human boy). This is fairly average height for most boys at this age, as it is when the hit a major growth spurt, and may only gain an extra inch or two before full adulthood. Hal was killed when he was 17 but did not hit his growth spurt just yet.
> 
> 4.) As it turns out, Hal was actually a very shy, very insecure spirit when he was first reborn. He was a bit clingy with Samhain, but grew out of his insecurity much more quickly than Jack. Although to be fair, Hal had the advantage of having a mentor a guide when he was reborn. Jack was completely on his own, and escape into his 'snowballs and fun times' instead of hardening his heart and steeling his resolve. Plus, Hal has an extra 200+ years over Jack. (He is just over 500 years old.)
> 
> ~S~


	14. Moon Help the Outcasts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple Rufftoon refs in this one, plus an altered version of Esmeralda's 'god help the outcasts' song! XD  
> Enjoy the long chapter~
> 
> ~S~

They stared at one another.

Or perhaps a better world would be ‘scowled’. 

Jack and Bunny neither moved nor spoke. Such actions could mean the very end of the menial shred of peace they had, and the beginning of a war they did not need. The stench of pure tension and _loathing_ that thickened the air was pungent and foul. So much like that writhing, groaning thing shared between them back in Libra’s Court. 

The Pooka sneered, arms crossed tightly and nose twitching.

“Where do you think you’re going, frostbite?” he growled.

Jack scowled, but made no effort to say anything to the Pooka. He was too busy trying to think of some way to avoid some conflict between the two. Of all the other Guardians, it just had to be Bunny who found him and possibly overheard what he and Hal were talking about. Had it been anyone else, Jack suspected he would have had an easier time dodging them, or at least talking them out of ratting him out or stopping him. 

Their locked eyes were relentless, a white-hot line trapping them; not unlike a snake staring down a paralyzed mouse. One wrong move could mean the end of things, but if he did not move now, he would essentially forfeit himself to the Guardians once more. 

_‘Don’t roll over like a neutered dog,’_ the voice said, _‘Fight or flight!’_

“Fight or flight…*” Jack repeated.

Bunny reeled back as if struck, his ears high on his head. He stared at Jack in a mixture of shock, suspicion, and pure loathing. He bore his buck teeth at Jack, paws clenching into tight fists at his sides.

“What did you just say?” he growled.

But Jack did not miss the slight tremble of his voice, the uncertainty and almost disbelieving tone he used. It confused him, but it did nothing to falter him in the slightest. 

And instead of answering, Jack slowly, almost mockingly, reached up for the window. He never once took his eyes off of Bunny, his other hand clenching around his staff in a white-knuckled grip that would snap any normal stick in half. Bunny’s eyes narrowed further, his teeth gritting as Jack reached for the window latch.

“Frostbite…” he said warningly – it came out as more a growl than anything.

Jack said nothing. His fingers brushed the cold metal of the latch. He could easily open it with a simple flick of the wrist, and his escape would be _right there_. He was quick enough, he knew he was. He could hear the wind howling outside, beating against the glass panes, eager for Jack to leave this place. He could almost swear it was howling and groaning at Bunny in aggression, as if it wanted to knock the Pooka right off his feet or send him flying into the stratosphere.

“Don’t you do it, you brat…” Bunny snarled.

Jack bristled, baring his own teeth at Bunny. He would have made to respond at any other time, but right now, he knew words were useless. No one, let alone Bunny, was going to listen to him. There was simply no point in arguing with somebody who was not going to listen, let alone _trust_ Jack. 

_‘Fight or flight.’_

The muscles in his legs wound tight, ready to make the jump. His index finger curled around the latch, palms clammy. Just one split breadth of a second, and he would be gone. Bunny may be fast, but he couldn’t fly like Jack. The latch creaked as it was slowly pushed upwards, the hook halfway out of its hasp. 

Almost there.

_‘Fight or flight.’_

He just had to…

“HIYA!”

_‘FIGHT!’_

Jack yelped, pulling his arm back, but the boomerang hit, sending jolts of pain up his arm as it connected with his wrist. But he had no time to mull over the pain, and immediately leaped into action. Just as Bunny caught his boomerang, Jack waved his staff in a horizontal arch, sending a blast of icy energy at the Pooka. 

Bunny leaped over the blast, rushing at Jack with a battle cry of rage. Jack gasped and swung his staff out of pure instinct, catching the hook along Bunny’s nose. The Pooka yelped, staggering back as he held his nose. He pulled his paw back, noting the large amount of blood now soaked to his furry pads. Slowly, he looked up at Jack, who was standing stiffly by and watching Bunny with a look of shock upon his pale face. 

Bunny growled, snorting up blood onto the floor. His claws retracted, and he got into a crouch as he snarled and growled at Jack.

“You fucking _brat_ …” he hissed.

Roaring, he leaped, flying at Jack with his boomerang brandished. But the frost sprite ducked and slid along the floor on his knees, passing under Bunny over a quickly formed icy trail. 

“Damn it…!” he rasped, quickly getting up. 

He ignored the pained yelp as Bunny connected to the back wall, the window cracking from the force of the impact. Quickly, he turned on his heels and shot a blast of ice at the Pooka. Bunny yelled as he was encased in ice from the neck down, stuck in mid-crouch in the freezing cocoon. 

“FROST!” he howled, struggling and throwing his head about as he tried to break free of the ice.

Jack bit his lip, an apology just on the tip of his tongue. But he swallowed it back, shaking out the sting of his quickly bruising hand. He looked to Bunny once more, seemingly stunned at his own actions. The Pooka snarled and growled like a struggling, rabid animal. A part of Jack wanted to drop everything and help the rabbit, but an even larger, more demanding part of him forced him to turn away. 

He couldn’t stop. He knew he could not stop.

“FROST!” Bunny roared out again, his voice raspy and bellowing like a livid lion.

He ran. 

Down hallways and past doors and winding corridors. Nothing looked the same anymore, nothing was familiar. Where once this toy-laden wonderland used to entrance and fill Jack with wonder and awe, it was now suddenly a labyrinth. A maze full of traps, tricks, and people he had to escape from. 

“Come on…!” he grunted, rushing down random halls and barging into random rooms.

But he could not seem to find any windows. Where had all the windows gone? Where was he anymore? When had the Workshop become such a constricting, suffocating place? When had such a childish, liberating place become a tomb?

Why had he never noticed before?

 _‘Don’t think, just run!’_ the voice implored.

Jack pushed on, determined to find an escape; a door, a window, he’d even take a damned Elf tunnel if he could find one. But nothing was as it was before. Windows were gone, doors had spontaneously become portals into random, empty chambers, and rooms had become four-walled prisons. He had to get out…!

Jack skidded to a stop at a fork, looking down each passage in confusion and adrenaline-fueled anxiety. His heart beat erratically in his ears, his entire body pulsing. 

“Come on, how do I get out…?” He swallowed, his throat dry. 

_‘Be calm. Think,’_ the voice said calmly.

Jack gritted his teeth, but forced himself to somewhat calm and do as the voice said. But he had no time; his brain was working too hard to try and find him a way out. He couldn’t focus, nor could he calm himself completely. He had to _get out!_

“Jack?”

Jack froze, veering his head around. He stared at Tooth, both parts apprehensive and cautious. His heart thundered behind his ribs, eyes wide. This only seemed to concern the fairy woman, as she floated closer to the sprite with an outstretched hand.

“Jack? What’s wrong?” she asked.

Jack turned fully, staff brandished. He couldn’t take any chances. Tooth knew nothing of what was happening, but she was just as much someone to fear as Bunny was. If not a liar, she was someone who was hiding things from him just as North was. And he couldn’t stand it any longer. 

“Don’t,” he hissed, causing Tooth to pull her hand back, “Don’t touch me.” 

“Jack, what is going on? What happened?” Tooth asked again, more urgently. 

Jack was about to make a break for it, but a familiar, and very angry Pooka with a bloody nose came skidding down the hall.

“Stop him! The dark spirits did something to him!” he shouted.

Jack made a disbelieving face, but Tooth immediately became frightened and looked at Jack in shock. He suddenly scowled, throwing his staff upwards, creating a solid wall of ice dividing him and the two other Guardians. Ignoring Tooth’s urgent calls to him, he turned and ran down one of the corridors without thinking. 

He ran and ran, kicking in doors and checking every nook and cranny for any means of escape. But there was none, nothing he could use to escape this joke of a wonderland. 

He finally reached a set of double doors, and rushed through them. His breath caught in his throat.

North blinked, looking quite surprised. Sandy looked equally as stunned, while Nature appeared annoyed, yet curious. The looming Globe above them all seemed to sneer at Jack, its flickering lights like judging, spiteful eyes. 

And above the Globe, through the skylight, the Moon shone. 

“Jack, what is wrong? You are looking pale…ah, _paler_ ,” North inquired, reaching out for Jack.

The frost sprite held up his staff, pointed directly at North.

“Stay back,” he rasped. 

North drew his hand back, stunned. He looked to Sandy, who could only offer a confused and concerned shake of the head. Nature watched on passively, yet there was a spark of question in her eyes. But Jack did not feel like answering. His only goal right now was to escape. 

“What has happened? Is it Pitch? Did he do something?” North asked.

Jack felt his blood boil in perfect time with Nature’s scowl. He suddenly seemed to at least slightly comprehend why Nature was so defensive of Pitch. For how could a mere shell of a broken man do anything to Jack? How could these people keep assuming that, whenever something went wrong, it was someone else’s fault and not their own? 

It made Jack sick.

But he no sooner startled than a hole appeared in the floor behind him, and out came Bunny and Tooth, the Pooka’s weapons brandished. 

“Don’t let him escape, North, he’s up to something!” Bunny snapped.

“Shut up!” Jack snapped back, surprising himself, “Just leave me alone, you don’t know what it is I’m doing!”

“I know you were getting chummy with Hal just a minute ago, and you were planning on helping Black,” Bunny growled.

“He needs help! Guys, something else is going on here. I don’t know what, but you have to trust me and-”

“Trust you?” Bunny rasped, disbelieving, “Trust _you?_ The same brat that ruined my holiday? You, who screwed up every single thing in the past, made a mess of everything he touched? You’re saying we need to trust the same sod who would ruin our lives and ally himself with a bunch of disgusting, foul, dark spirits?!”

“You don’t know anything about me or them!” Jack snapped, brandishing his staff at the Pooka.

Bunny snarled, but was stopped as North stepped between them.

“That is enough!” he bellowed, turning to Bunny, “What is going on? Why are you two fighting?”

“This brat was conspiring with that whore!” Bunny snarled.

“Hal is not a whore you jerk!” Jack defended, “And I wasn’t conspiring, I was trying to find some way to fix this mess we made!”

“What can a scrawny little brat like you do?!”

“The hell should I know! But at least I’m _trying_ to help! What have you been doing?!” Jack yelled, before turning to the other Guardians, “What have all of you been doing?! Have you been thinking of ways to fix this, or trying to find excuses for yourselves?!”

No one had the time to answer, as Jack bore his teeth at them all, his glare like piercing icicles and biting frost.

“We made a mistake. The Man in the Moon was _wrong_ ,” he hissed, shooting a look to said Moon, “And I…I was wrong. About you, about Pitch, about everything! I was just a stupid kid wanting to live in some fantasy land, because it was just easier…”

His eyes slid over to Nature, taking in her passive, stony face and stance. He seemed to relax minutely, but not completely.

“We messed up, and I might never really know just how badly we screwed things up. But I know we are hurting people, humans and spirits,” he said, voice cracking, “And I want to fix it. And if not that, I want to make things better at least…”

He glared at the Guardians, looking each of them straight in the eye. Though none of them said anything, their facial expressions told just how stunned and confused they were. And it made Jack sick, not because they were so shocked at his outburst, but because they were shocked that he even lost his patience with them. Did they honestly think he was never going to ask them what was going on? Did they honestly think he was so childish, so naïve, that he would never once wonder what goes on in the world? Did they really, truly think this whole time, that Jack was forever going to stay a child?

Looking into their eyes, Jack found the answer to be, yes.

Shaking his head at them in a mixture of disgust and rage, he looked up at the Moon. The Moon was shining its light down upon him, as if scrutinizing and pinning Jack with its gaze. It made Jack wonder, just how livid or upset was the Man in the Moon feeling right now? How confused and betrayed did he feel? It was liberating to a degree, to have the tables finally turned. But still, Jack was enraged; so _now_ the Moon listened to him…

“I want to grow up…” he rasped, his voice breaking at the end, “I want to be free again. I want to know what we did to our world. I don’t want to be a child forever. And…”

He swallowed, but never once let his gaze break from the Moon. He held his ground, unwilling to play the meek little boy any longer. He was _done_ with being ignored. 

“I want to save Pitch.”

Silence reigned over them all. And while the Guardians appeared shocked beyond all reason, it was Nature’s expression that caught Jack’s attention. She seemed mildly surprised, stunned even. But while her face read of shock, her eyes told an entirely different story. From within the obsidian depths of her eyes, Jack saw something he never could imagine seeing in Nature’s eyes.

He saw hope. 

He turned to Bunny when he suddenly snarled. Jack gave an involuntary flinch, but no sooner steeled himself. Bunny had never looked so scornful and hateful. There had been plenty of times where he had expressed and shown his dislike of Jack, but here…he never once outwardly showed _hatred_ for Jack. Up until now at least.

It was quite obvious. Bunny did not just dislike Jack; he _hated_ Jack.

“Jack…” North started calmly, but the steadiness of his voice was broken by the pure shock in his eyes and the slight shaking of his hands, “I do not think you know what it is you are saying. You are confused, this is not-”

“I knew you weren’t a Guardian, Frost. I knew you were just a brat. You are _nothing_ like _him_ ,” Bunny hissed. 

“BUNNYMUND!” North bellowed, startling Jack. He vaguely noticed that the other Guardians had become extremely pale, Tooth’s wings stuttering until she nearly fell out of the air. North marched over to Bunny, face red with anger.

“Speak not another word, you do not know what-”

“Oh wake up, North! He’s not one of us, he’s not the same as him! He’s just a brat who thinks he is!”

“Bunnymund, this is not the time nor the place to-”

“ _He’s not Nightlight!_ ” Bunny screamed. 

Gasps of shock and disbelief rang throughout the Globe Room, resonating from the other Guardians. Nature looked more surprised than anything. But in her eyes, something seemed to click into place, and she shot Jack a look that couldn’t really be called sympathizing or pitying; rather, she gave him a look that was of stoic understanding.

Jack though, he could not understand. And he frowned in confusion and anger; confusion from once more not knowing what was going on, and anger because he was confused. But that name, Nightlight. Who, or what, was Nightlight?

No one said anything, but Bunny was not going to wait around for a retort. Snarling, he grabbed Jack by the hood of his hoodie, tapped his foot, and they both vanished down into a tunnel.

Jack yelped as he was dragged through dirt and rock in the earth, passing shafts of minute light and distant voices. Kicking and trying to loosen the Pooka’s hold on his hoodie, the large rabbit only snarled at Jack to keep still and quit struggling. Soon, they were moving upwards, and hopping out of the hole and into a familiar room of blue and white and iced walls.

Bunny threw Jack onto his bed, marching over to the window. He muttered something under his breath, his paw on it. A flash of green surrounded the window, oppression and compressing air filling the room. He then stormed for the door, throwing it open. He turned to look at Jack with the most hateful look the sprite had ever seen on the Pooka.

“You ain’t him, you brat. You’re nothing but a mistake!” he snapped.

He slammed the door shut, and another flash of green appeared around the door before vanishing. The sound of the lock clicking shut was heard, before the Pooka’s heavy footsteps stomped away down the hall. 

Jack scrambled to his feet, breathing hard. Eyes wide, he gritted his teeth with a snarl and shot towards his window. Pulling the latch, he yanked it back, but the window refused to budge.

“What the…?” Growling, he yanked the latch back again, but it still would not open.

He cursed under his breath, stepping away from the window. Taking his stance, he aimed his staff at the window, and blasted it with a wave of ice and lightning. But once the frost cleared, the window was left undamaged. A green aura surrounded it briefly, before it flickered out of existence a moment later.

Jack gaped like a landed fish, disbelieving. Shaking his head, he cautiously approached the window and touched a hand to it. The green glow flashed, and he pulled his hand back from the burning sting it enticed.

A sealing spell.

Similar, if not much weaker, than the one they used on Pitch. 

Bile rose into Jack’s throat, and he lurched and collapsed over his waste bucket, heaving dryly. He panted and gasped, a dribble of spit hanging from his lower lip. He spat into the waste bucket, screwing his burning eyes shut in frustration. Bunny had locked him up in his own room. He didn’t even bother to try and think of using the door; it was already locked and probably blocked as well. He had no other doors or windows he could use. He was trapped. 

“Damn it…!” he snapped, slamming a fist onto the floor, “That bastard!”

Jack sobbed, falling back onto his rear with his head in his hands. Pulling at his hair, he cursed and spat at the floor violently, his rage palpable. The bitter taste of bile on his tongue was sickening, pungent. Groaning, he fell onto his side on the floor, curled in a tight ball of anguish, distress, and rage. 

“This wasn’t supposed to happen…” he rasped, “This wasn’t supposed to happen…!”

A broken gasp escaped him, and he closed his eyes. The oppression of his room was suffocating. Is this what Pitch felt during his imprisonment, Jack wondered. No, it had to have been worse. Much worse. For one, there were no Nightmares or Fearlings here to taunt and torment him, to gnash and hiss and spit their putrid words at him. There was a window and a door, a means of escape, even if those places were now reduced to mocking him. Pitch had had no doors or windows, not even the comfort of his own lair. 

The Workshop used to be such a wonderful, fun place for him. A place of joy and curiosity, of discovery and laughter. But now, Jack could not see it as such. All he could see and feel was a prison. The loud colors, the flying contraptions, and numerous toys all masked what it truly was, and what Jack had once refused to see it as. 

It made him wonder; how had he been so blind? Why had he been so oblivious, in such denial? Why was it now he was finally starting to open his eyes and see what the world of Guardians truly was? There had never been a single doubt in his mind up until now, and all of a sudden, his entire mind was filled with doubts and questions. 

What had he been hoping to accomplish, he wondered. He became a Guardian, but the question remained; why? He had told himself numerous times over the course of fifty years that it was for the kids. But he knew better; that wasn’t the reason. Patrick’s harsh scolding of him had shown him that, but at this moment, he honestly did not know what it was that made him become a Guardian. Was it to be accepted? To belong somewhere? Desperation for companionship? Or was it all of the above?

He groaned, clawing at his scalp and pressing his palms to his ears. Everything was so loud, too loud in his head and in his ears. His thoughts, his doubts, his questions, the damn Guardians, _Pitch…_

 _‘Pitch…’_ Jack shuddered. What was going to happen to Pitch? What was going to happen to him, the Guardians, the dark spirits, _everyone?_ What was going to happen to their world without fear?

What _was_ a world without fear?

Jack didn’t want to think about it, but his own life reflected exactly what a world without fear was. His entire life was the result of having no fear, and his resulting situation was the price he had to pay. He may have died saving his sister, but in all honesty, did it really have to go so far? Did he _have_ to take her ice skating that day? Did he have to go out with her onto the ice without checking it first? Did he have to be such a careless, childish, failure of an older brother to his sister? He may have saved her from drowning, but he still put her in danger. And the cost of that mistake was either his or her life; and he chose to pay with his own life. Three hundred years of solitude, of desperation, despair, and hurt; that was the price of being a child. 

That was the price for not wanting to grow up.

 _‘I want to grow up now…’_ he thought brokenly, _‘Please, just let me save him! If I have to pay for what I did to him with a thousand years of solitude, I’ll take it! Just don’t punish him for it!’_

No answer was forthcoming. Not from anyone outside his door, not from himself, not even from that strange voice in his head. He didn’t even know who he was pleading with; the Guardians, the Moon, Nature, Time, God himself? 

“Please…” he rasped, “Let me save him…let me _out_ …”

He pressed his hands harder over his ears, the only sound he was able to hear being the rushing of his own anguish-infected blood. 

But suddenly, a noise.

He thought perhaps it was his own heartbeat, pounding dully and sluggishly in his ears. But it suddenly stopped, and his brows creased over his closed eyes in confusion. The beating started up again, this time more urgent. Jack blinked his eyes open, his sight hazy and blurry with how tight he had his eyes closed. But there was a shadow looming over him, bobbing ever so slightly.

He blinked, rubbing his eyes as he looked up and at his window. He gasped. 

Atop his broom, his large fist frozen midway from knocking on his window, Hal stared at Jack with his candy corn eyes. They blinked a couple times swiftly, as if surprised. He cocked his head, knocking once on Jack’s window again.

Jack scrambled to his feet, picking up his staff as he did so, and stared out his window. He did not dare touch the spelled window, as much as he wanted to pound his fists against it and escape. Hal’s lips moved; he was speaking. But Jack could not hear him, and he shook his head and cupped a hand behind his ear. He then pointed to his window latch, giving a helpless look.

Hal blinked, before he scowled. He gestured to Jack to step back, the sprite obeying the silent command. He watched, entranced and slightly frightened, as Hal laid his clawed hand upon the window. The green energy flared to life like emerald flames, hissing and snapping at Hal. The Homunculus snarled, his claws extending. He pulled his arm back, and swiped it forward. His claws landed and dragged over the glass pane like a tiger clawing at a chalkboard.

Jack cringed, clamping his hands over his ears again, but it did little to nothing in negating the sound. And not even a moment later, the glass of his window shuddered and bent, the seal of the spell turning a vivid orange as it was overwhelmed by the Homunculus’ magic. And with one final push, the glass and pane shattered, glistening shards falling like stars upon the floor around Jack’s feet. 

The sprite blinked, ears ringing with the sound of shattering glass. But he no sooner sighed when utter relief came over him as the cold air of the Pole flooded his room and washed away his anxiety and oppression. The wind greeted him like a long lost friend, swirling around him joyously. He chuckled breathlessly, looking up at Hal curiously.

“Hal…” he said, unable to think of anything else to say, “How…why did you-?”

The Homunculus held up a hand, adjusting his position on his broom.

“There’s no time,” he said, scooting further up his broom, “Get on. We’re leaving.”

“What?” Jack said dumbly. Hal sighed, exasperated.

“Jack, we need to talk. And we have to do it somewhere besides the Workshop,” he said, “Now come on, pack whatever it is you need to get by, and hurry. Someone can be coming by any minute.”

Though confused, Jack did as the other told him. Quickly, he rushed to his wardrobe and pulled out a worn leather messenger bag. He quickly stashed an extra hoodie – black – into it, as well as a scarf, a knife, a notepad and pen, and after a moment’s contemplation, the little nesting doll of himself North had given him. As an afterthought, he swiftly stuffed the letter and the key into the bag as well, before he slung it over his shoulders and rushed back to his window. 

Climbing the sill, he eyed Hal questioningly, taking in his side-saddle position over the thin stick. He didn’t dare ask if he could just fly alongside Hal - it would be a waste of time. So making sure his bag was secure, and his staff was held tight in one hand, he imitated his friend’s sitting position on the back of his broom, using his free arm to wrap around a slim waist. 

He gasped as they pulled away from the window, arm tightening around Hal’s waist. The Homunculus pushed his foot over the pedal sticking out of the flaming straw, the fiery engine powering up.

“Hang on,” he said, “We’re going to Sleepy Hallow.”

Jack swallowed, but before he could question anything, they were already blasting off like a rocket for the realm of monsters*. 

 

****

**

~s~S~s~

**

****

 

It seemed like Jack had only blinked once before the entire scenery changed around him. Where once snow, ice, and towering mountains dominated the land, he now found himself flying swiftly through a land dominated by dusk and night. Scorched trees with flickering autumn leaves sailed past them below, and up ahead, Jack could see the great hulking tree that was Hal’s castle and domain, the town below it a sanctuary for those rejected by the world. 

They fly over the town, steadily drawing closer to the great Sleepy Hallow tree. And down below, Jack could see every manner of monster and beast hard at work, working tirelessly in iron shops and smiths. He frowned, watching as a few Werewolf-like creatures barked and snapped at each other, carrying loads of blackened iron spears and swords. Others were hauling canons and strange iron carriages towards the edge of the forest. Torches were lit, lining the edge of the black forest that surrounded the kingdom, and boats of iron and steam puttered across lakes and down rivers, armed to the keel with projectiles. 

“What are they all doing?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the wind.

“They are preparing for war,” Hal answered calmly; he didn’t even sound like he had to raise his voice to be heard.

Jack blinked, stunned and suddenly frightened.

“With…the Guardians?” he asked.

“The Guardians, the Moon, any who dare to oppose us in our desire to protect our King,” Hal said, maneuvering around a flock of ravens – all of which carried more weapons, “The Throne is vacant now, and there are spirits scrambling to claim it. And we are not going to let them take what is rightfully Pitch’s.”

Jack swallowed, taking in the severity in which Hal spoke, the pure rage and fiery resolve boiling under each and every word. He did not dare to ask any more questions, nor did he want to delve too deep into what was already turning out to be a coming disaster. He had a feeling he was going to hear quite a bit of what was going on from Hal. And if not, he would have to find the courage to ask. 

They suddenly dipped downwards, and fell in a dive for a more secluded area near the castle. Just past the winding and gnarled trees that lined the castle like hulking guards, a clearing was seen. 

A graveyard. 

And just at the back of the stone-laden cemetery, a large cathedral stood. Jack was oddly reminded of Notre Dame in Paris, its windows taken up entirely by stained glass, and stone pillars hosting Gargoyles and beasts of every nature. The bell tower at its center was massive, hosting an equally grand and expansive bell of iron. 

They flew down further still, until they stopped and touched down at the cathedral’s steps. Hal let Jack dismount before letting his broom stutter and power off, smoke billowing from its engine. Muttering darkly, Hal looked to Jack seriously and gestured to the cathedral doors.

“Please be respectful,” he said, his voice quiet and soft. 

So saying, Hal started up the stairs before Jack could answer. The frost sprite tightened his hold on his staff, but nonetheless followed the Homunculus. The stairs were stony and seemed to go on forever. But there was a strange coldness to them, almost frigid under Jack’s bare feet. It was a cold unlike Jack ever knew, not at all like the cold of snow or ice. 

He looked up at the cathedral, both in awe and trepidation. He thought he could possibly hear a choir inside, singing a lonesome hymn. Or perhaps it was the sighing wind mourning over the graves. 

They reached the top, and approached the double doors, which were flanked by two large Gargoyle statues. Hal stopped and turned to Jack, holding his broom out to the side.

“No weapons,” he said. 

Jack blinked, about to ask why when he suddenly gasped, backing up slightly. One of the Gargoyle statues growled and stiffly reached up, taking Hal’s broom respectfully. Its eyes – glowing red – stared at Jack expectantly, its stony nostrils flaring and granite wings shuddering. Its double on the other side of the door huffed, bits of rock and dust falling from its form.

Too stunned to really protest or question, Jack gave the second Gargoyle his staff. He thankfully got to keep his bag though.

“Thank you,” Hal said with a tip of the head. Turning, he gestured the Gargoyles to open the large set of double doors. The two stony beasts pulled at the iron knockers, the doors groaning in protest as they were pulled open just enough for Hal and Jack to get through. 

Jack stepped inside with Hal, staggering at the nearly overwhelming silence that flooded the cathedral. Stunned, he stared around the dimly lit hall, at the wrought iron lanterns and stands with flickering candles. Ahead of them was a large hall filled with pews, an altar standing at its back just under a large stained glass mural. The high ceilings were only made higher by the three stories of balconies flanking the higher walls. 

The entire hall was dimly lit in a soft, blueish glow, the candles being the only signs of warm colors in the silent and peaceful cathedral. Distantly, Jack could swear he could hear organ music, but the large organ in the back of the room near the altar was still and hosted no player. The once faint singing Jack thought he heard outside was just faintly louder now; it sounded like children were singing. 

_Moon help the outcasts,_  
Shunned from birth,  
Show them the mercy,  
They don't find on earth,  
Moon help my people,  
We look to You still,  
Moon help the outcasts,  
Or nobody will…* 

“This way,” Hal said, startling Jack. Though his voice was quiet, it sounded oddly loud in such a still place. 

Swallowing, Jack followed Hal to the left hall, and down a flight of spiral stairs. Jack’s gaze flitted about the narrow, stone hall they found themselves in. Small torches hung along the walls, but they did little to nothing in truly illuminating the gloomy hall. Jack shuddered; he could swear he could hear voices, distant and ghostly, all around him. He could not make out exactly what they were saying, but he could hear them, and they seemed to be talking about him. 

“Hal…” he said as quietly as he could, “What…is this place?”

Hal didn’t stop walking, but answered all the same in that same hushed whisper.

“This is the Lost Cathedral,” he said, “This is the resting place of lost and forgotten souls, of those who were abandoned and forgotten…”

He paused, lowering his head somewhat.

“This is where spirits go when they die…” 

Jack staggered, but caught himself so as to keep up with Hal. He shook his head in disbelief.

“I…I don’t understand,” he said, “I thought, I mean, you said when the Guardians lost belief, they wouldn’t die. Is it different for others?”

Hal shook his head. “There’s a difference between not being believed in, and completely and utterly forgetting.”

He gestured to the stone walls around them, Jack noticing that there were carvings of people and beasts he had not even noticed before. Hal stopped before a stony mural of a strange beast that shared one head, but had two bodies*. He traced a claw over it, the dragon-like beast that Jack could not name.

“These people…” – not beasts, not monsters – “They lived long, long ago, when people thought they existed. And for a time, they did.”

“But?” Jack urged.

“But Time is and always will be ever changing and shifting. And like the extinction of dinosaurs, spirits became extinct too,” Hal said, “But while we remember dinosaurs, not even I can remember the name of this person. I only know he’s been dead for a very, very long time…”

He shook his head, looking forlornly, almost in apology, to the picture of the beast. 

“History is destined, doomed, to be forgotten one day. Take the story of the Bible for instance. No one can truly prove it really happened, because all of its history has been altered, lost, or buried and burned,” he said, “It’s a never-ending story that no one remembers.”

A never-ending story that no one remembered…it made Jack wonder. How did it all start? _When_ did it all start? Who were these people? These apparitions he could not name, could not recognize? 

“And they just…died?” Jack asked.

“In a way. We spirits rely on humans not just for belief, but for our very existence,” Hal said, “Adults may not believe in the Easter Bunny or Santa, but they acknowledge them as figureheads, as people, as living things they support for their children.

“But for these people, their existence was not wanted anymore. Demons, monsters, wraiths and beasts. These are the people that humans want to forget. And so they do, and discourage belief in the newer generations. And one by one, the more people are told, ‘it’s just a bad dream’, the less they are acknowledged. And they die.”

Hal shook his head, dropping his clawed hand to his side. “Even us fellow spirits have forgotten them. I don’t even know this one’s name. I don’t even know _what he is*._ ”

Jack swallowed, stunned beyond comprehension. It suddenly seemed to occur to him then. He had never wondered what kept other spirits who were not Guardians alive. He never knew, never even thought for one moment that a spirit could _die_ simply because they were forgotten. To forget and completely dismiss their existence to the point of not even remembering what you were dismissing. A spirit’s death, the moment where the very last person who even acknowledged them as perhaps being at least a nightmare, died and flickered out of existence, was the same time that spirit died, and was completely forgotten – even by other spirits. 

It was as if they never even existed at all.

Jack felt a heat building up behind his eyes, but he willed the tears away forcefully. He looked at the images presented to him, carved into the stone of a cathedral. It was a proper resting place, if somewhat empty. There were no graves, no memorials, not even a name to put on a grave marker. 

It was such a sad, empty way to die. When you died, you were at least remembered and mourned. But Hal could only mourn over possibly inaccurate images, and apologize to the thin air for not being able to name and remember some of the very beings who he was supposed to protect and command. 

Not even Sleepy Hallow was a perfect sanctuary. Because no matter the monster, they are all eventually forgotten, and eventually, they will have to die. Whether or not they will be remembered for a few decades or not was completely up to chance. But either way, Time left nothing behind after a while. Time devoured all who he deemed finished with existence.

And Jack could not help but feel a pang as he took in the dozens, _hundreds_ , of unknown faces and forms painted and carved upon the walls. Every single one of them were gone and forgotten, their names unknown and their voices swallowed into nothingness. 

“No spirit…no soul in this world gets a say in how they come to be. We never ask where we will end up, who we will be born to, and what situations or conditions we will be born in,” Hal said, “But that’s what life is, to both mortals and immortals.”

“But why just…forget that easily?” Jack asked desperately, “All of them…? Every single last one of these was just forgotten? Because of what they were?”

“Jack…” Hal sighed, as if he were pained, “What do you expect? What do you expect to happen when all you were born for was to cause pain and misery? Would you honestly expect to be remembered because you caused something you never had a choice in doing?”

Jack felt a knot in his stomach, his hands tightening into fists. Hal simply turned his head away from him and locked his gaze onto one of the many carvings of monsters on the wall. He brushed his hand against its head, leaving a trail of smooth granite where dust used to be.

“All of these spirits, these monsters…” he started, “Were forgotten and died, because humans – and fellow spirits – do not want to remember. They do not want to remember the pain, the shame and the doubt, the blood and the tears. These beings were unwanted, unloved…” He locked his eyes back to Jack, his gaze forlorn yet cutting. 

“We’re spirits, Jack. But we are very much alive. And we can die, in pain or in peace,” he said, brushing the dust off of the beast’s head. Jack shook his head slowly.

“But this…why?” he rasped. Hal paused and stared at the carving, his eyes unreadable.

“The same reason you do not like revisiting the memory of your death,” he said, “It’s because you don’t like it. It hurts you. You want it gone. You even sometimes wish you never looked at it…”

Jack was too stunned to respond, his gut clenching into a tight knot, like someone had punched him in the stomach. How did Hal _know…?_

Hal sighed and let his arm fall to his side. “Many have passed, and not a single one of them was like you or the Guardians. Yes, light spirits have died before, but it was always peaceful, and their memories still live to this day. But these ones…”

He paused and looked back at the carving he had brushed some dust off of. He shook his head.

“I don’t know where spirits go when they die. Especially the ones born from Pitch’s shadows…” he said, “All I know is that death to us is an unknown, an abyss.”

“What do you mean…?” Jack breathed, still too stunned to really process his own words.

“…I once asked Time where they went when they died,” Hal started, looking at the floor, “He said they just vanish. They cannot go to that place of fire, the place humans call Hell. Hell does not take that which is already damned. They do not go to that white place in the sky, the place known as Heaven…they have long since forgotten how to get there. So they just disappear into nothingness. Forgotten. Erased.”

Jack swallowed and bit his lip, hands clenched and trembling. He felt a hot sting in his eyes, but did not allow a single tear to fall.

“But why…? Why do they have to be forgotten? Why them? Don’t they deserve some kind of remembrance?” he asked desperately.

Hal’s lips tightened. “You are the Guardian of Fun, Jack. No one wants to willingly forget the fun times of their lives. Humans are selfish and easily swayed into the kinder things in life. They don’t want to forget the good things. Hope, wonder, happy memories, dreams, joy…no one wants to forget these things…

“But pain, misery, nightmares, fear…who could possibly want to remember such things? What mortal, what immortal, would want to remember these? Who would love such creatures?”

Jack couldn’t find an answer. It was impossible. No matter how much he wracked his brain to come up with an answer, some kind of excuse, he could not find any reason why any person, mortal or otherwise, would willingly want to remember such things. And even if he could come up with such a reason, he would only sound like a hypocrite. Because not even he wanted to remember pain…

“So that’s it? It’s just like that? What about people like Mother Nature? Or Father Time? Can’t they just…I don’t know, spare them, save them from that kind of fate?” he asked.

Hal shook his head. “Time and Nature are not Gods, Jack.”

“But that doesn’t-!”

“Jack,” Hal interrupted firmly, as if annoyed with him. Jack stopped and stared at the Homunculus. He simply sighed in what sounded like defeat, staring at his bright red shoes.

“We’re spirits Jack…we are all that every human wishes they could be. But we are also what humans consider a curse. Some of us are just born with more misfortune than others…and we can’t change it. We’re all destined to die one day. Most just don’t get a peaceful death, nor a happy life…there can never be happiness without misery. Someone out there has to be miserable for others to be happy. It is just unfortunate that these ones got the short end of the straw…”

“But being punished because of being born as they were? For simply being born? It… it’s not fair,” Jack breathed out.

“Of course it’s not fair! Life is never fair! Not even to the most whimsical of creatures! No one has a fair life unless they are born into money and power, or in our case, unless we are blessed with something loved by selfish, ignorant creatures like humans!” Hal snapped, turning on Jack with a scrape of his claws on the wall.

Jack veered back, stunned, his hand itching for his staff. Hal’s eyes narrowed into snake-like slits, his black lips pulled back into a snarl. But he soon calmed, his stance relaxing. His claws released the stony wall, bits of rock and dust falling at his feet. 

Hal said nothing at first, but eventually turned and started down the corridor once more.

“We die because we are unwanted…” he said. He looked back at Jack pointedly, letting his hand fall to his side.

“There are simply happier things to think about and believe in…” he said.

Jack’s heart stuttered in his chest. Of course…why think of monsters when you have Santa, the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, Sandman, and Jack Frost to think about? Why dwell on something frightening when you can look forward to holidays, good dreams, coins under pillows, and snow days? 

Why keep something that looks ugly and broken, when you can have something new and wondrous? 

“Come, I have something to show you,” Hal said suddenly, startling Jack.

The frost sprite made as if to protest, to ask more questions. But he stopped himself, realizing it was no use. No matter how much he griped about it, nothing could change the way the world worked. He was not Time or Nature, he could change nothing of what he had just learned. 

So he followed the Homunculus further down the corridor, until they came to a set of double iron doors with a very heavy-looking lock binding it shut.

Hal stopped before the door, reaching into a hidden pocket of his waistcoat. He pulled out an iron key, slipping it into the lock. The click of the lock unlatching was heard, and a red aura flashed around the door before vanishing. He pulled the lock off the door handles, and pushed it open. 

“Come,” he said, ushering Jack inside. 

Jack stepped over the threshold, the remnants of the sealing spell around the door making him shudder. 

He followed Hal inside, stopping to look around. The room was round, the ceiling above them bubbled into a dome. Murals of orange, red, and yellow painted the ceiling in a dazzling display of color, a tale of autumn being told in its swirling vortex of colored leaves and flaming arches. Jack squinted up at the ceiling, taking in the colorful display, dulled ever so slightly by the weary hands of Time. 

It was like the mural room at the Pole. But here, it was different. The walls were entirely made up of stone, ancient tapestries worn and torn with age hanging from the slate stones. Not a single window adorned any of the walls; Jack felt as if he was in a crypt. 

And judging by the large stone altar, and the matching stone coffin that sat upon it, perhaps he was.

The back wall was dominated by a second mural, this one depicting a tall, lean man with a fiery mane of red hair the color of redwood, skin like porcelain, and robes of burgundy, black, and dark orange. He was surrounded by streaks of muted white wind and autumn leaves, holding a swirl of white – wind – in one hand, and an orange leaf – wood – in the other*.

And although he had never met the man, Jack somehow knew; this man in the mural was Samhain.

Hal approached the crypt, removing his hat as he kneeled to the altar before a plaque at its base. Lowering his head, Jack approached as well, unsure what to do. Should he kneel as well? Was he allowed to speak? He honestly did not know what to do outside of simply waiting for Hal to give him some kind of direction.

So instead of doing anything out of sheer guessing, he craned his neck slightly to peer over Hal’s shoulder and at the plaque. 

__

“Wind into fire,  
Wood into metal,  
These are that which I,  
The Transcendence,  
Command,  
Resolve,  
Revolt,  
Unto the end.

__

Samhain,

__

Be still and rest, beloved Master, brother, father, and Monarch.” It read.

So it was Samhain’s crypt, Jack thought. He swallowed, now very uncertain as to what he should do. A part of him wanted to apologize to Hal for his loss. But he would be some five hundred years too late for that, and Hal could very well be over his master’s passing. Or perhaps not…

A moment of silence passed, and Jack stood still and quiet out of respect. The Homunculus eventually muttered something indistinguishable to Jack under his breath before standing. He sniffed, wiping quickly at his eyes as he did so, and placed his hat back on his head.

“Do you know how it is Samhain passed, Jack?” he asked quietly.

Jack, despite knowing Hal could not see him do it, shook his head. Hal sighed.

“A long time ago, Samhain and Pitch used to be very close friends. Samhain was one of our King’s Knights, his companion, brother, and beloved friend,” he started, “One night, they were attacked, and Samhain took a fatal hit in Pitch’s place.”

Jack blinked, stunned. “Attacked…?”

Hal nodded, stroking a claw over the stone crypt. “Mm-hm. They were following a boy, a human boy, and these people thought he and Pitch were out to harm him.”

Jack suddenly frowned, his hand tightening around a staff that was no longer there. He had a feeling as to who these people were, but he had to ask…

“Was it the Guardians?” he asked.

Hal nodded.

“And…they killed Samhain?” Jack asked in astonished disbelief. But much to his relief – and confusion – Hal shook his head.

“No, that wasn’t what killed him. It’s what one of them used that poisoned him, dooming him to a slow, painful death. But he died before it could claim him,” he said.

Jack swallowed. “Who…or what…poisoned him? How did any of them poison him?”

“He was shot in the back,” Hal said curtly, “By Sanderson, with a Dreamsand arrow.”

Jack balked, staggering back in shock. An arrow…suddenly Jack recalled Pitch, shooting Sandy in the back with a Nightmare sand arrow all those years ago. It had been, in his opinion, a cowardly and lowly act. But right now, hearing this…was it perhaps a personal revenge against Sandy? Were he and Samhain so close that he would seek revenge for his lost friend?

“But that wasn’t what killed him…” he stated shakily.

“No. Samhain was killed honorably and with dignity,” Hal said.

“How? And by who? One of the Guardians?” Jack asked.

“No…”

Hal turned to look at Jack, a strange look in his eyes. It seemed to be a sort of cold resignation, yet there was pride and dignity in the way he stood.

“I killed Samhain,” he said. 

Jack gasped, staggering back once more in wide-eyed shock. He shook his head slowly in disbelief.

“What…? Hal, that…that’s not possible, I mean, you liked Samhain, he was your master…” he rasped.

“Indeed he was, which is why I had to kill him,” Hal said simply yet with a hint of ice in his tone. He sighed, turning to fully face Jack.

“Jack, we dark spirits have rules and traditions, just as you Guardians and light spirits do. One of these traditions is the passing on of one’s title to an apprentice or successor,” he said, “For most, doing so is just telling the apprentice they have surpassed them and moving on. But no, this is not a proper, nor an honorable, method of passing the torch.

“For the residence of Sleepy Hallow, Death is not something to mourn or fear or resent. Death is celebrated, is cherished and accepted. Death is inevitable, like Time himself. Here, Death is the judge of how and when a successor takes his master’s place…”

He paused, looking back at Samhain’s crypt forlornly.

“I did not want to at first, but he was dying anyways, and he was suffering. He told me that Death was not to be feared or avoided. Death is a beautiful, tragic, yet natural thing we all eventually come to embrace. And so I did…”

He looked back at Jack, eyes hardened.

“For me to succeed my master, I had to fight him to the death. If he killed me, it only proved I was not ready or the right candidate. And if I won, I not only surpassed him, but I earned my right to Sleepy Hallow’s throne.

“With my sickles and fire, and his scythe and wind, we battled long and hard. Pitch was there to oversee the exchange, all of Sleepy Hallow was there to watch us, including other dark spirits. And during the climax, just when he was about to cleave me in half, I dropped all sense of hesitation, and took his head clean of his shoulders.”

Jack swallowed, instinctively bringing a hand up to touch his throat. He said nothing, too stunned to really think of anything to say. So Hal continued.

“The last few words he said to me before we entered the battle were inspiring, and had I not heard them, I likely would not have won…” he said, “He said, ‘Never close your eyes, and never apologize’.”

And he did just that. The killing blow right in front of him, he would have turned away, unable to watch him take a beloved friend’s head off. He would have closed his eyes, and hesitated. A wrong move to make, and Samhain would have killed him. But he didn’t hesitate. Because of those words.

“Because of those words, I looked my master dead in the eyes, and without hesitation whatsoever, I took his head off,” Hal said, “And then Sleepy Hallow was mine, its throne my prize, and its subjects my burden.”

He suddenly looked sharply at Jack, eyes narrowed and burning. The frost sprite shuffled his feet, wishing dearly for his staff.

“Never forget who you are, and never regret who you become,” he said, “Do you regret who you have become, Jack?”

Jack looked away, uncertain. But he knew his own answer, it was quite obvious. He very much did regret becoming who he was today. He regretted becoming and accepting the Guardianship. But he was trying to fix this mistake, reverse this regret. He was trying to turn this mess into something he could one day look back on and say he at the very least tried. 

He nodded. 

The Homunculus sighed. “It’s so hard, so painful, changing and accepting it. But it is necessary, vital in some cases. A caterpillar does not become a butterfly without pain, but in the end, it learns to fly and becomes something beautiful.”

“But why does it have to hurt…?” Jack asked. 

Hal shrugged. “It simply does. Would you truly learn anything if it did not affect you in some negative way?”

Jack shook his head, not even needing to think about it. Hal was right, but it still did not excuse the fact that change was painful, and it was even harder to accept. But in the end, change is inevitable, like the changing of the seasons. If everything stayed the same forever…there would be no life. No time, no growing up, no joy or sadness, it would simply be a process of repeating one’s everyday tasks. There would be no such thing as something new or different. Everything would just stay the same. Jack would still be the same…

“You must think me cruel, a monster, for murdering my master,” Hal said ruefully. He held a hand up before Jack could protest, and continued, “But I loved my master, Jack. Perhaps even more than an apprentice should.”

The admission was a shock, but at the same time, Jack did not know just how deep Hal and Samhain’s bond went. He never once asked about the dead man, because he always assumed it was a touchy subject for Hal. He simply pushed it to the back of his mind, never once wondering if Hal even wanted to talk about his master. He spoke so passionately about him, how wonderful and kind he was. So why did Jack always seem to assume he couldn’t bring the matter up?

“What Bunny said…”

“Was pure bullshit, but his assumptions are somewhat true,” Hal said with a sigh.

Jack looked up at Hal, stunned. “You and…you and Samhain…?”

“I made the mistake of kissing him at a party once,” he said, “I was still so young, scared and insecure. And I latched onto my master in all the wrong ways. But my master, bless his soul, he patiently helped me sort out my confusion and emotions, and although I loved him, it was in a completely different way than I thought it was.”

Jack blinked owlishly, but seemed to accept the information. But then he frowned.

“And Pitch…?”

Hal chuckled, an amber flush painting his cheeks. “Never let it be said he isn’t a good-looking man, and I admired him so much when I was younger.”

He looked up at Jack, a small, wistful smile upon his face.

“All us dark spirits are inherently drawn to him, we share a bond with him,” he said, “The first time I met Pitch, was in the same room as him, saw him for the first time…he smiled at me, and I cried.” He placed a claw over his chest, eyes hooded.

“My heart was so full and heavy with this indescribable emotion I felt for him. I couldn’t stand it, but somehow I knew; I knew that I _loved_ Pitch. He was my God, my father, my brother. He was literally my everything. And I could never love someone as much as I did him or my master…”

His smile soon fell though, and he looked to Jack pleadingly, almost brokenly.

“Make no mistake, Jack, we may be monsters, but we _feel_ ,” he said, “We all _love_. And it is because of that love, we suffer, and we suffer gladly. Because in the end, we know our King is safe, and we can be happy. But now…”

_Now he’s gone…_

Jack shuddered, unable to take his eyes off of Hal. The spirit, once so proud and dignified, was broken, hurting, his heart missing that heavy warmth and familiarity of a man now lost to them all. He was suffering from an empty space in his chest, a place where he cherished and loved beyond all reason. The suffering, the pure longing and love for a man he had worshipped like a God…

And Jack had taken those feelings from him…

Hal’s shoulders sagged. “Jack, have you ever felt that kind of painful devotion? Have you ever looked up at the Moon, and felt something other than betrayal or anger?”

Stunned, the frost sprite bit his lip. Was there ever a time he had looked at the Moon with love and reverence? He could recall, when he first awoke at his pond, he had been in awe of the Moon. But _love…_

“No…” he said, almost sadly.

Hal nodded slowly. He suddenly turned and kneeled by the crypt again, this time reaching out for the plaque. Placing his clawed hand flat against it, a sizzling sound was heard as smoke rose from between his claws. The words carved into the golden plate suddenly seemed to glow, burning a deep orange color. 

Jack suddenly looked up at seeing a flash of yellow out of the corner of his eye. He stared, wide eyed, as the mural above seemed to come alive and rain down leaves the color of fire upon them. Awestruck, he watched as hundreds of leaves fell, dancing and cutting through the air like deadly ballerinas, swirling in a fiery vortex of color. They twisted and converged, turning faster and faster as they tightened into a thin tornado at the room’s center, burning brighter and brighter until the tornado became a vortex of fire and ash. 

And in a sudden flash, the fire was gone, and in its place, stood a black staff.

Astonished, Jack watched as Hal approached the staff. It was probably as tall as his own staff, if slightly thicker towards the top, and instead of a curved ‘C’ of a crook, this staff boasted a strange ‘S’ shaped top. Black as ink, the staff appeared to be made of charred wood*.

Hal carefully took the staff into his claws, cradling it carefully in a horizontal hold. He turned back to Jack, his expression determined, yet invasive.

“This is Pitch Black’s staff,” he said, “The Staff of Shadows.”

“What…?” Jack said dumbly, “But…Pitch never-”

“He did not want anyone to find out he had a weapon, let alone one so powerful,” Hal cut in, looking at the wooden staff somberly, “He entrusted it to me centuries ago, telling me to keep it safe and hidden…”

“But…why show me then?” Jack asked curiously.

Hal looked back at Jack, eyes narrowed. The sheer solemnity of his gaze nearly sent Jack reeling, almost had him looking away like a scolded child. But he did not look away, not even as the Homunculus approached him with the staff in hand. 

“Because I’m going to take the risk and trust you one more time,” he said, “I’m going to ask you to take it, protect it, and rescue Pitch with its help.”

Jack blinked, dumbfounded. He shook his head.

“Hal, I…how can I do that? I don’t even know how to save him!” he exclaimed.

“You will know, you will learn,” Hal said emphatically, “But for now, I can only tell you so much and give you a warning. Your journey does not stop here. You have a long way to go, Jack.”

“I don’t understand…” Jack said in more than obvious confusion and trepidation. 

“Jack, war is coming. There is no avoiding it,” Hal said, lowering his head somberly, “Pitch’s throne is going to be pursued by others scrambling for power, and it is mine and another’s job to protect it. I am one of Pitch’s Knights, and I am making a judgement in assuming you will help us.”

Jack swallowed, staring at the staff in hesitation. It virtually hummed with the energy it retained, its black body smooth and unnaturally dark.

He looked back at Hal, hands clenching at his sides.

“What do I have to do?” he asked.

“You must find our home,” Hal said, “Time is running out, and the only way to save our world is to find the home of the dark spirits. You must also collect two other items; one from Sorrows, and another from Disliber.”

Jack blanched. Disliber? Of all the people he had to see, he had to see that Devil again? And for what? What was he looking for? 

He suddenly paused, eyes wide upon Hal. “Wait, Sorrows? Sorrows is a person? The name left on that letter was a person’s name?”

“Jack, listen to me.” Hal grabbed his shoulder, startling the frost sprite from his prattle. 

His hand was hot as fire, and his gaze was just as, if not more, burning. There was desperation, a plea in his eyes that Jack could not shake or comprehend. 

“This is not just about people and spirits dying anymore,” he said, “This is about our _entire world_ being destroyed. There is more to this than you know, and Pitch was more than just someone who instigated fear.”

“I…I don’t understand…” Jack said, becoming even more uneasy.

Hal sighed. “You only need to know this. You have only one month to stop the end of our world, whether by Nature and Time’s hands, or…”

He paused, biting his lip. He lowered his gaze from Jack, and released his shoulder, holding his clenched hand to his stomach. He shook his head.

“Just…please,” he pleaded, “Don’t stop fighting. Don’t turn back. Just go to Antarctica. There’s a door there – I know you saw it.”

Jack didn’t even bother to hide his shock, but Hal continued all the same.

“Go through it, and follow the path. You’ll find yourself in a very familiar place. There is a door there, it’s near the edge of a plateau. Go in, and find a map. The rest is up to you,” he said.

He suddenly held the staff out to Jack.

“Take this with you. He wanted you to have it,” he said.

“What?” Jack blanched again, “No, Hal, I can’t-”

“You have to,” Hal urged, shoving it into Jack’s hands, “And even more than that, you owe me. You owe _him_.”

Jack swallowed thickly, unable to come up with a retort. But in a way, Hal was right. He wanted to do this, and he was a big contributing factor to this entire mess that was made. In a way, he had no choice. Once he turned his back on the Guardians, everything – from his mistakes, to his short comings and fears – it was all going to crash headlong into him. And he had to face them.

Hal regarded Jack solemnly.

“Pitch is dying, Jack,” he said, “Make no mistake. So please, I beg of you… _save him_.”

Jack bit his lip, uncertain. He looked at the staff in his hands. It was light like his own staff, but it was warm, like it held a feverish energy not unlike Pitch’s own. He looked back up at Hal

“How do I know you’re not just trying to keep secrets from me too?” he asked.

Hal sighed. “Jack, do you trust me?”

At first, Jack wanted to protest the rather uncouth question. But looking back on his actions, how he had fled from the other Guardians, and willingly come with Hal to this place, _to Samhain’s crypt…_

It was hard to admit, but Jack trusted Hal more than the Guardians.

“Yes,” he said simply.

Hal nodded. And without another word, he led Jack out of the crypt and back into the cathedral. Once outside, the Gargoyles gave back their weapons. At first Jack wasn’t sure how to carry two staffs, but Hal simply pointed Pitch’s down butt first into his bag, and pushed it in completely.

“As long as the storage area has shadows, it can fit anywhere,” he said, slightly bemused of Jack’s stunned expression at his bag.

Jack nodded slowly, looking back at Hal. There was uncertainty and anxiety in his eyes, even a little bit of fear. Hal could not blame him; he was essentially going to try and save someone who tried to hurt him and the children he held dear. But Hal did not necessarily pity Jack; no, this was something the frost sprite had to do, whether he liked it or not. He had to know what was happening to the world…

“Jack, listen, before you go,” he said, stopping Jack from leaving. Hal took in a breath, releasing it in a long, soft sigh.

“There is an evil in this world. It is not something we ourselves can face and fight. Pitch is the only one who can combat it, and right now, the gate holding this evil is starting to open…”

He placed a clawed hand on Jack’s shoulder again, more gently this time. 

“And if it has a chance of consuming this world, Time and Nature will be there to destroy it before it does,” he said.

Jack blinked, more than a little confused yet very much frightened by the Homunculus’ words. But he needed no further prompting. His mind was made up, and the urgency was palpable. He could not, _would not_ , turn back now out of fear and confusion. 

Determined, he nodded curtly to Hal, who smiled wearily at the sprite. And in a quick, and brief burst, he hugged Jack tightly and released him.

“You _will_ find your answers, Jack,” he said, “I swear this to you.”

Jack nodded slowly, cheeks flushing ever so slightly from the quick hug. He gave the Homunculus a tiny, shy smile.

“Thanks, Hal,” he said, “Really, this…this whole thing is just…”

“Unbelievable?” Hal offered.

“I was going to say fucked up, but sure, that too.” Jack chuckled ruefully.

Hal gave a short chortle, nodding. “Well, let’s hope we can un-fuck this up.”

Jack scoffed rolling his eyes as he turned. “You need to work on your modern speech.”

“Duly noted. Good luck, Jack,” Hal said. 

Jack gave a confident nod and a thumbs up, turning towards the Sleepy Hallow kingdom. Without turning back, he took to the air once more, and sailed for Antarctica.

He wasn’t sure how, but somehow, the singing of the cathedral had gotten louder, clearer even…

_I don't know if You can hear me,_  
Or if You're even there,  
I don't know if You would listen,  
To a monster's prayer,  
Yes, I know I'm just an outcast,  
I shouldn't speak to you,  
Still every night I see Your face and wonder...  
Were You once an outcast too? 

_Moon help the outcasts,_  
Shunned from birth,  
Show them the mercy,  
They don't find on earth,  
Moon help my people,  
We look to You still,  
Moon help the outcasts,  
Or nobody will… 

_Please help my people,_  
The damned and deformed,  
I thought we all were,  
The children of the night,  
Moon help the outcasts,  
Children of the night... 

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes.
> 
> 1.) I'm using some minor elements from the Rufftoon comics as you may know. And those who have read her comics should be very familiar with this phrase. 
> 
> 2.) Like other powerful, higher spirits, Hal lives in and runs not just a single lair or territory, but a whole realm. This is usually restricted to much more powerful spirits who reign over a whole army of charges or servants, or in Hal's case, provide a safe haven for the monsters of the human world. Realms typically have any number of doors to and from the human world, and are usually only accessible by other spirits (with the realm owner's permission) or the charges/servants that need them to cross between worlds. Although there are many rumors of humans accidently stumbling through these doors and into these realms, it is EXTREMELY difficult for a normal human to pass through a door.
> 
> 3.) As you may notice, or recall from my old notes, this song is derived from the song, 'God Help the Outcasts' from The Hunchback of Notre Dame. 
> 
> 4.) You get a cookie if you recognize this beast in particular. Hint: it has to do with the Ruftoon comics. 
> 
> 5.) To clarify. In this instance that Hal is speaking of, a spirit can only truly and utterly die and fade away completely if humans completely and utterly forget them and lack any knowledge of them. This includes forgetting their name, their appearance, what they did, and so forth. This process can cause a sort of mass extinction if the spirit in question is part of a whole species and not just an individual. An individual often goes fairly quickly, while a whole species can experience this mass extinction in the worst possible sense as their friends, family, and entire race is slowly vanishing. This obliteration of spirit(s) is known by many names, the common few being - Entropy, Evanescence, and Oblivion. The resulting Oblivion of a spirit in turn gives way to a mass amnesia in the spirit world. So in a nutshell, the process goes - erasure of the spirit from the human mind and memory, mass extinction/death of the spirit, Oblivion, amnesia of the now gone spirit. NOTHING is left behind, not even memories. 
> 
> 6.) Samhain's primary elements are opposite of Hal's own. His elements being wind and wood, and Hal's fire and metal. Both have secondary elements of shadows though. 
> 
> 7.) More Rufftoon references, heyo~
> 
> ~S~


	15. Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoot~! Update! I actually updated on this on my FF.net page days ago, but I was busy going over and editing my other chapters before updating here. So enjoy! 
> 
> ~S~

Jack didn’t really know why, but on his way to Antarctica, he decided to make a pass over Burgess one last time. He considered it his last visit at the moment, as he had no idea of whether or not he would ever see it as the same town he had come to love. Should he fail in fixing this mess, he doubted it would be the same, that it would ever be his home again. 

He landed within the forest that housed his lake, but he did not go to his home. Instead, he went further into the wood, bare feet scuffing dry and barren dirt, crunching over dead foliage. He reached the familiar clearing very quickly, knowing how to get to it almost by heart now. 

He did not enter it though, but rather stayed hidden behind a tree as he surveyed the area. The offerings were in abundance, many more having been added since the last time he had been there. The lit candles had been doused however, and the hole itself surrounded by a ring of mushrooms. A fairy ring, formed of sentinel fungi standing at attention, as if to form a protective barrier to keep others out. 

Or perhaps to keep things in.

Jack swallowed, uncertain. He wasn’t entirely sure as to why he had come here again. Perhaps he wanted to pay his respects, or maybe he just wanted to see if someone was there this time. Though who exactly he was hoping to see here was a mystery to him. Not even he was sure what he wanted to expect. 

His chest ached, seeing the numerous trinkets strewn about. All offerings, of riches and endearments and wishes and simple condolences. There was not a single item there that did not convey the agony the giver felt towards the receiver. He could see prayers scrawled on stones and tablets of wood. There were even toys, old and new, worn and torn and loved and abused. The symbolism of each of these items was mostly lost on Jack, but even he would admit their meaning and sincerity were deep. 

It made Jack feel out of place, ashamed almost. He likened this awkward feeling to a stranger intruding upon an intimate funeral that he was not meant to be a part of. Yet he had visited this area twice now, and he hadn’t even given his own offering. The guilt of the entire situation was eating him alive, and he had yet to properly show how hurt he felt for Pitch. 

And whether or not his shame gave him courage, or perhaps he was feeling particularly foolish, he simply knew he had to correct this error. 

He stepped out from behind the tree and cautiously approached the lair’s entrance. Carefully, he stepped over or around offerings and gifts, not daring to disturb a single thing. He reached the edge of the lair in about a minute or so, his toes a mere foot from the mushrooms surrounding the entrance. He paused. What could he possibly give Pitch?

Biting his lip, Jack collapsed into a cross-legged position before the hole, staff lying by his side, looking around for inspiration. But nothing was really standing out to him. Everything was in such abundance, Pitch would truly never want for anything if he could see what was given to him. Riches and rarities laid about in sultry and inviting piles, while modest items and toys lay scattered about in their meek and rustic grace. Even items Jack could only describe as garbage were offered to the Nightmare King.

Jack looked back at the hole. His hand wandered to his side, pressing into his bag. The crinkle of paper was heard. He suddenly knew what he wanted to give the Boogeyman.

Reaching into his bag, he pulled out his pen and notepad. Uncapping the pen, he placed the tip to the paper, and without any thought, started writing. 

After much scribbling, crossing out words and sentences, and even restarting on a few new sheets of paper, Jack was finished in about ten minutes. He spent a bit longer than he should have out there, so exposed, but he didn’t care. He reread his letter numerous times, biting his lip as he regarded his rather juvenile words and a few misspells. 

Though it was flawed, it was genuine and heartfelt. And that’s all Jack had wanted to convey; how he felt and how sorry he was. It wasn’t nearly as much as he wanted to say, nor did it fully convey just how much regret and guilt ate at him, but he supposed it was enough for now. He had rambled on a bit it seemed, filling the page front and back with emotions he wasn’t sure how to handle; anger, regret, guilt, confusion, sorrow…

_‘It is enough,’_ the voice said, _‘He would understand, and forgive.’_

“How can he forgive that easily…?” Jack muttered, hands tightening around the letter, small whorls of frost snaking up its edges like a silvery border. 

_‘He simply would.’_ Was the short answer.

Jack swallowed, sighing as he picked up his staff and stood. He surveyed the area, senses amped and attuned to any and all sound. But silence reigned here, and she gave no utter or sound, never once permitting anyone who might be there with him to so much as sigh. Not even the wind so much as groaned in the trees or rustled the leaves. All was still. 

Jack approached the hole with shuffled steps, careful of the mushrooms growing around its edge. He studied the capped fungi, not unlike wide hat-wearing little guards. A strange, gossamer powder was sprinkled in a ring under the mushrooms; spores perhaps? 

He looked at his letter, contemplating rereading it again and starting over. But he held himself firm, knowing he had no time to be picky about letters of all things. He kneeled by the hole, cautious and keeping his staff well away from breaching the guarding fungi. He untied one of the leather laces keeping his pants cinched around his calf, and rolled his letter up into a thin scroll. Tying it with the leather string, he held it balanced vertically in his palm. Ice began to climb up and around the scroll from his palm, forming a hollow cylinder. In no time, he held in his hands a bottle of ice holding the letter secure in its icy cavern. He sealed the top with frosted ice, carefully holding the glassy bottle in his hands. 

His ice powers were strong, stronger than most give him credit for. The ice would not break unless he willed it, or unless someone tries to open it. It made him wonder if anyone would open it at all. He had created it so no one but Pitch could crack it open, the ice destined to melt in the feverish palms of his hands. 

But Pitch was not here to receive the letter, nor did he possess enough warmth to melt the bottle. 

Taking a deep breath, Jack leaned ever so slightly over the ring of mushrooms, and stared into the abyssal depths. He swallowed dryly, recalling his near mishap from the last time he had come here. Had Bunny not had the insight to look there, he probably would have been pulled in. Though he did not favor the Pooka at the moment, he was grateful to have been saved at all. 

He held his arm out, dangling the bottle over the hole by its top. A bit anxious, he sent out a silent prayer to anyone who would hear him, and let it fall from his hand. 

The bottle fell, and Jack waited with baited breath. For what, he was not sure. For a sound, something to happen, he could not be sure. But he waited, listened, and watched all the same.

Seconds became minutes, and still, not a thing was heard or seen. Jack was a bit perplexed, wondering why he hadn’t heard the bottle hit the bottom yet. Or was there even a bottom anymore? Was it purely an abyss of shadows now, no longer a thing of logic and physical law? 

He sighed, finally standing up. His staff clutched loosely in one hand, he adjusted the strap of his bag with the other. He stared at the hole and its fairy ring a moment longer, uncertain.

_‘You cannot stay here, child,’_ the voice said.

“I know…” he sighed.

Wiping the sleeve of his hoodie over his eyes, Jack gave the hole one last look before shuffling away. Careful of where he stepped, he made it across the lake of offerings and gifts, and was about to take flight. 

“Jack!”

Jack froze, eyes wide. No, it wasn’t one of the Guardians, he reasoned. The voice was far too high-pitched to be any of theirs. It didn’t sound like anyone he knew at all. Frowning, he turned in the direction the voice was coming from. 

He flew into the air, past trees and through smoggy clouds. The further he flew, the clearer the voice became. Jack almost stopped in midair at one point, thinking it was his sister calling his name. It was definitely a child’s voice; a little girl by the sound of it. He could hear laughter too, from a young boy further up. 

He stopped as he came to a clearing, familiar boulders and frosty whorls surrounding him. His pond, the site of his death and rebirth. He couldn’t recall the last time he had come to see this place as his home. He had stopped coming to his lake after Jamie stopped believing in him, and since then he had not seen it. 

The frozen lake was dim and grey, the water cloudy and thick with debris and murk. Never had Jack seen his home so decimated, so impure. It frightened him.

But no more so than the sight of the boy tiptoeing towards the center of the partly frozen pond.

“Jack!”

Jack looked up, his breath catching. The girl, looking no older than six or seven, stood shakily at the edge of the pond, straight brown hair falling past her shoulders, her tattered jacket and brown boots partly sunken into the mud surrounding the pond. Her wide brown eyes, tearful in fright and anxiety, watched as the boy moved further out onto the ice where it was thinnest. 

She looked just like his sister…

“Jack, please stop! It’s not safe…!” she whimpered.

The boy…Jack turned to look towards him. He gasped, eyes wide on the boy – perhaps ten or twelve in age. He was thin, gangly in his growing body. His messy brown hair spiked in numerous directions, as if windswept, he wore a simple coat and pants, but no shoes – those he had left on the shore by the girl.

The resemblance was uncanny, eerily so. Jack could feel himself trembling, his heart pounding noisily in his ears. 

The boy, Jack, only laughed as he shuffled out further. His white-socked feet turned grey as he walked through puddles of water, the ice groaning. Cracks spiderwebbed from under his feet, growing thicker and longer the further he went.

“Shut up, Emma!” the boy laughed, almost cackling hysterically, “Nothing’s going to happen!”

“Jack please, we’re not allowed out here…!” Emma called, her voice pleading. 

But Jack only laughed harder, before he suddenly gasped as he slipped. He caught himself just barely in time, his foot stomping down on the ice.

_Crack!_

The frost sprite gasped, eyes wide as a large crack appeared, nearly spanning the entire pond. The boy looked surprised, but no sooner laughed in that strange, hysterical manner. It unnerved Jack, this haunting, eerie laugh that lacked anything innocent or mirthful. It was not a child’s laugh; nor a laugh that resembled anything sane.

“Jack, stop!” Emma cried, eyes tearing up; but her mouth was twitching oddly, as if she were fighting off a smile…

Jack wasted no more time. Leaping from his hiding place, he floated over to the boy with his namesake, stopping right in front of him. 

“Kid, get off the ice!” he yelled.

The boy paused, looking towards Jack, blinking in bewilderment. He cocked his head, as if confused.

“Huh, where’d this wind come from?” he asked.

Jack felt his heart stutter, the wind nearly dropping him in his stunned state.

He couldn’t see him…

“Jack…!”

Jack looked up towards the girl, his expression pleading. Please, let her see me, she has to see me, I can’t let this kid…!

He reeled back as if struck, staring in horror of the girl. Or perhaps not at her, but at what hovered over her like an ominous cloud.

Grey eyes and a glowing maw grinned at Jack, a large, deformed claw settled on the oblivious girl’s head. Its hunched figure cackled, completely black, formless; shapeless not unlike a cloud of smoke. 

“Jack…!” the girl yelled, suddenly releasing a brief bark of laughter.

The boy laughed, spinning on the ice, either oblivious or uncaring of the various cracks forming right under him. Water welled up from the shallow cracks, wetting his socks, the cold stinging his toes. But he felt none of this, not the pain of the frigid waters seeping into his skin, nor the fear that refused to grip his heart.

Jack looked to and from the boy and the creature with its claw upon the girl. It grinned nastily at Jack, its form seeming to settle and solidify. And yet, the more it coalesced, the stranger the girl became. On her knees with tears running down her cheeks, Emma released an unnerving sound between a sob and a chuckle.

“Jack…!” she choked, her mouth stretched into a frightening grin. She reached out towards – who? Him? Her friend? 

Her eyes were unnervingly wide, her brown irises trembling as she fought to focus on something that was seen far beyond Jack or her friend. No, she was not looking at Jack, nor was she looking at something that was truly there; she was looking at something that transcended people like Jack.

And if he were to turn around right now, he would see in just the briefest glance of what she was seeing. 

He would see Death. 

“Jack…!” She giggled, fingers scraping red lines into her mad face.

The creature above her rumbled lowly, hollow eyes locked onto Jack, trapping the sprite in a grip of terror and paralysis. It only frightened Jack all the more, this thing that gripped him. The roiling beast in his chest that was once emaciated, capable of nothing but groaning and clawing at his heart, was now upright and ravenous, grasping its spindly hands around his heart. 

The thing – both of them – seemed to taunt Jack, forcing him to look at both the girl and the boy. 

_**“Look at what you have wrought…”** _

_**“Poor things…they never stood a chance…”** _

_**“It’s all your fault!”** _

Jack’s mouth opened in a soundless plead, hands trembling, the wind stuttering and howling, yet unable to move the frost sprite from his spot. Freeze the ice, his mind screamed. Save the boy, get that thing away from the girl…!

_Crrk…_

The girl sobbed and giggled.

“Help me…!” 

And the boy…

“Hey Emma! Watch this-!”

_CRACK!_

The boy gasped, and Jack felt his scream catch in his throat as the ice gave way. The gaping maw of icy teeth and black abyss yawned open, swallowing the perplexed-looking boy. Like a monstrous beast from the abyssal sea, it devoured the helpless boy without any effort whatsoever, and vanished under the murky surface. The water sloshed briefly, before settling into its stilted, filmy surface. Bubbles rose up rapidly through the water, before they too ceased after but a moment. 

No sound was heard, and nothing broke the surface of the still pond. 

The boy was gone.

The beast in his chest loosened its hold on Jack’s heart just the tiniest bit. The frost sprite dropped from the air, landing on bony knees against thin ice that thickened under his touch. He stared at the hole, at the dark water muddled with oil and silt, murk and mud swirling like tainted ghosts just below the surface. 

His air entered and escaped his body in even, slow breaths. At the back of his mind, he was wondering why he wasn’t reacting as he would imagine at the boy’s supposed death. Why was he not screaming? Why wasn’t he up and raging, crying and shouting? Why wasn’t he scrambling for the hole in the hopes of possibly reaching the child before he drowned?

And the girl, why wasn’t she…?

Hands shaking and eyes wide, Jack looked up towards the girl. The creature looming over Emma cackled, turning its head grotesquely to one side with an audible pop.

_**“Jack…!”**_ the girl’s voice reverberated from its grinning maw.

Jack gaped, mouth wide open in a soundless scream of terror. The thing only laughed with the girl’s voice, warped and distorted as it was; like oil mixed with water. It released the girl’s head, and she fell forward slightly, trembling, her face hidden in her hands. 

Jack trembled, leaning back and away from the creature as it stared him down. The thing in his chest convulsed, sinking its teeth into his heart. Sheer terror and panic erupted in his chest, spurting like blood from his beating heart. The creature laughed, craning its elongated neck towards Jack.

_**“Jack!”**_ it called in the girl’s voice, _**“Jaaaack…!”**_

“No…!” Jack rasped, starting to hyperventilate. 

_**“Jaaaaaaaaaack!”**_ it called again, _**“Jack! Jack! Jack! Jack, Jack, Jack, JACK JACK JACK JACK JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!”**_

It laughed, madly and uproariously, before it dove into the nearest shadow and vanished. 

And for the longest moment, Jack couldn’t do anything except sit there and stare. There was little else he could do as he sat paralyzed, the thing coiled in his chest steadily releasing its hold around his heart. But the venom of terror still coursed through him, poisoning his blood and muddling his mind. It laughed, deep and beastly, before curling up under the bleeding organ, and fell back asleep.

Jack was left with a strange sensation of weightlessness and white noise. His ears ringing, he felt like he was outside his own body, powerless and helpless. Until he heard sobs.

He averted his gaze to the girl, kneeling in the mud with her face in her hands, shoulders shaking. And Jack, numb and confused, floated over to the girl, not at all feeling the wind carrying him towards her. His heart lurched, breaking through his foggy resolve. He landed in front of her, kneeling on the shore as he watched her sob and weep. 

He shook his head. He didn’t know what to do or say. She couldn’t see him, neither of them could see him. And because of that, the boy…

Jack felt his shoulders shake, his throat clenching. His eyes burned as tears rolled down his face, hitting the ground in little drops of frozen pearls. 

“I’m sorry…” he rasped, his voice choked, “I am so, so sorry…!”

The girl suddenly stilled, her sobs ceasing. Jack looked up at her, brow creased in concern. Her body trembled briefly, her tiny knuckles white as she gripped her face in what had to be a painful hold. Jack swallowed, edging closer to her, daring to hope. 

“Hey…” he called softly, hands planted on his knees, “Are you okay?”

What a stupid question, he thought. Of course she wasn’t okay! She just saw one of her friends – or possibly her sibling – fall into his lake. How could she possibly be alright?

Was this how his own sister was when she saw him fall into the pond, never to resurface? Was this how she was, so distraught and heartbroken, that she could not muster up even the tiniest shred of hope of seeing someone like him?

It made Jack question his existence; what good was he if he could not help kids who were so traumatized? The double-edged sword of trading belief for the ability to be so much as seen was an uneven scale, a wayward balance that could not simply balance itself out. 

He sighed, eyes burning. He couldn’t even save a fearless kid, what hope did he have of saving Pitch?

He looked up at the girl as she hiccupped a sob. He frowned, no, not a sob. It sounded like…

“Heh…hehe…! Heheh-ahahaha…!”

Face draining of blood, Jack stared as the girl raised her head, getting a perfect view of her face.

It absolutely _terrified_ him.

Eyes wide and unseeing, she stared right through him with a crazed gaze, eyes impossibly wide. Her smile – if it could be called such a thing – was not something that belonged on a child’s face. Wide and full of teeth, the soft lines of her face distorted by the Cheshire grin, her grin was absolutely mad. And her eyes…

Soulless, foggy and crazed – they were the same hollow grey as those creature’s eyes…

And she _laughed._

“Hahahah! Hahahahahah! GAHAHAHAHAHAHAH-AHAHAHAHAHAHA…!”

Cackling senselessly, eyes streaming with salty tears, she fell onto her back and laughed. Eyes rolling hazily, she writhed and kicked like a struggling turtle on its back, rolling on her back as she stared madly at the sky. 

“Jack! Jack! Jaaaaack~!” she sang, “Jack was eaten! Jack was eaten by them~!” 

Having collapsed onto his rear, Jack scrambled away from the mad girl – or was she even a girl anymore? She did not sound human, and she acted even less so. He swallowed thickly, eyes wide on the demented child. 

“Jack was eaten~! Jack was eaten~! Hahahahaha!” she laughed, clawing at the muddy dirt and rocks until her fingers bled. 

Jack trembled, mouth open in some vague attempt to say or exclaim something. But no sound came out, not even a scream or a gasp. His mind was completely and utterly blank, his entire resolve not but a pile of brittle, shattered steel. 

He shook his head slowly, disbelieving. This girl, she wasn’t human anymore. She was not a person. He didn’t know, but he somehow just knew. This girl was gone, she was just as lost as that boy with his namesake. She was no longer Emma. She was something else entirely. 

_‘What’s happening…?!’_ he thought frantically.

And an answer came.

_‘This is simply what happens when fear, the prime human emotion that makes one human, is devoured…’_ the voice said sadly. 

“I don’t…” – he shook his head again, vision blurring – “I don’t understand…!”

A sigh in his head. _‘That girl is not a person anymore. She has no heart, no mind, no soul. She only knows madness and fearlessness. She is a shell, just like him…’_

A ringing invaded Jack’s ears, followed by a shattering pain in his chest. Just like him…just like him… _just like him…_

_‘You cannot stay here,’_ it said, _‘You cannot save her. She is gone.’_

“What? No! I…! I can do something, I can fix-”

_‘You cannot fix her! She is DEAD!’_

His heart fell through his feet, plummeting into the earth. Dead…this girl was _dead?_

_‘No! She’s right there! She’s moving, breathing, she’s…’_

She was what? She wasn’t a little girl anymore; the innocence of a child was a fragile, precious thing, and easily seen in the eyes of a child. But here, looking into those soulless, hazy grey eyes, he saw not innocence, but madness. This was not a child; not a girl, not a person, not even a human anymore. This was merely a shell full of fearless madness and a lifeless mind. She may still breathe and move, but she would never be a living thing ever again…

_‘The dead do not come back…’_ the voice said mournfully, yet firmly. 

Jack did not move, but only watched as the once girl rolled in the mud and cackled and wheezed like a diseased pig. Laughing so hard and for so long, she began to gasp and wheeze, her little chest frantic in its attempt to keep her from suffocating.

_‘She will not live long,’_ it said, _‘You must go. You cannot save her. Do not torture yourself with the sight, and go.’_

As if he were inclined to obey the command, Jack numbly rose to his feet like a mechanical soldier. He stared at what was left of the girl, the spitting image of his own sister. She gasped and coughed, her soundless cackles burning her tightening throat. She clawed at her neck, drawing blood and welted red lines against her throat. The tears did not stop, but there was no pain or sorrow in her eyes. Soon she would no longer even breathe, and the nightmare before Jack would be long gone…

Jaw clenched, and hand trembling around his staff, Jack turned away from the once child, and flew away. But despite how far he had flown, he could still hear her ragged, desperate gasps for air, her hysterical cackling. 

And for a moment, he thought he could hear the last of her breath leave her body.

Tears burned his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Though despite this, it did not stop the agonizing pain from blooming in his chest from what he had done. 

It was the first time Jack Frost had ever turned his back on a child.

 

****

**

~s~S~s~

**

****

 

Confusion, anger, distrust, more confusion, and fright.

These were the emotions each Guardian felt, all four crammed into North’s office like children hiding from their parents to go to the doctor. It was a strange, almost laughable, mindset all things considered. But perhaps, in their own minds, they were not trying to hide. No, they were not hiding. Perhaps avoiding, but not hiding. 

But then again, perhaps it would be safe to assume they were hiding. For who wouldn’t hide from the wrath of Mother Nature? Who would not seek out a little hiding place to weather the Nature’s spirit’s stormy wrath? 

But this was not why they were up in arms. No, they were all huddled in North’s office because Tooth had gone to check on Jack a few minutes ago. But when she had returned, she told them her knocking and calling had garnered no response from the sprite. Thinking Jack was just ignoring her or sulking, Bunny dropped the ward, and he and Tooth checked his room.

He had been nowhere to be seen – he wasn’t hiding under his bed, in his closet, or anywhere in his room. But the window was broken, the spell Bunny had put on it burnt to a crisp and left as nothing but a useless husk of hollow magic – magic that had been overpowered by a fire elemental. 

“You know he did it, North!” Bunny snapped, “That damn Homunculus busted Jack out and is probably now filling his head with Moon knows what!”

“Bunny, be calm! Getting angry is not going to solve the problem,” North grumbled, pacing the room, “And anyways, was it truly necessary to lock Jack in his room?”

“The brat was asking for it, you know it…” Bunny growled lowly, ears pinned back.

Tooth bit her lip, looking to Sandy for help. But the fallen star could only give a helpless shrug, sands swirling around him in a confusing display of wisps and shapeless lumps. Not even the wise Sandman knew what to do or say…

“It does not matter, Bunny! What you did to Jack was irresponsible and rash!” North snapped.

The Pooka snarled. “No worse than shoving him into a sack and kidnapping him…”

The two other Guardians flinched, North’s face turning a mottled shade of red as he glared at the large rabbit. His large hands clenched into fists at his sides, his tattoos stretching over the straining muscles. 

Bunny only crossed his furry arms though, turning to look at Sandy and Tooth – completely disregarding North.

“In any case, Hal is gone, and so is Jack. Now what does that say about this whole mess?” he growled. 

Neither of the flying Guardians answered, instead looking to one another for any possibility of help in the matter. 

From what they had been told by a Yeti guarding Pitch’s room, the furry creature had not seen Hal leave the room. He had only entered it hours ago, but never came out, and yet he was missing. He could have used the shadows to go elsewhere, but it was odd that he would leave Pitch alone without telling anyone. 

Or perhaps he did tell someone, they thought. But who? Who would he tell that he was virtually helping break Jack out of the Workshop and-

“What are you lot doing?”

Startled, the Guardians veered around, hands on their weapons. Nature scowled, her facial expression hard and stony. Arms crossed, she regarded each and every one of the Guardians with her critical, obsidian eyes, as if daring any one of them to speak first. 

“Well?” she drawled. 

North made as if to speak, but rather unfortunately, a certain Pooka beat him to it.

“Why don’t you ask your creep father? I bet he knows where Hal took Jack and what he’s been filling his head with,” he snarled.

“Bunnymund!” It was Tooth who scolded the Pooka surprisingly, and she flitted between him and the nature spirit before the emerald woman could string the Pooka up by his tail. She wrung her hands nervously, not daring to meet Nature’s eyes as she spoke.

“We’re concerned that perhaps Jack has been influenced by Hal or another dark spirit,” she said, “He’s been acting so odd lately, and he attacked Bunny. We’re only worried that something is going on, and we’re trying to figure out what.”

A beat passes in utter silence, not a single word leaving Nature or the Guardians’ mouths. Tooth bit her lip nervously, eyes locked onto the train of Nature’s dress. She did not say anything, nor did the others as they waited for a response. But when a response did come, it shocked the Guardians.

Nature _laughed._

Or perhaps ‘laugh’ was not a proper word. They looked up in stunned silence as she chuckled lowly, the sound dark and cold as the abyss of the sea. Her shoulders shook faintly, her red lips stretched into a cruel grin. A slow blink, catlike, before Nature calmed and sighed heavily, tucking a strand of her wild black hair behind her ear.

“Oh you laughable, ignorant, vain fools…” she sighed, grinning mirthlessly and coldly, “Perhaps he is being influenced, but it isn’t by anything as dark as you think it to be…”

She uncrossed her arms, smoothing down an invisible wrinkle in her dress as she regarded the Guardians.

“I am actually quite impressed. He’s making more progress than I thought he would, and he’s certainly doing more than you lot are,” she drawled. 

“Hey, we’re helping plenty-!”

“By doing what?” Nature cut Bunny off, shooting him a deep scowl, “What have you all possibly been doing that could be helping this matter? You don’t even know the full gravity of what you have unleashed on this world.”

“Then tell us!” Bunny snapped, daringly stomping a large foot forward, “You say we’re keeping secrets from frostbite, but you’re no better! You’re not even telling us what is happening!”

Nature said nothing, but regarded the Pooka with a flat look, with an undertone of disdain and mild disgust. One would think she was looking at a rat carcass in the street, soiled and rotting, stinking of decay and wet, matted fur. 

“You would not be able to comprehend it,” she said simply, stoic, “Children – especially spoiled, thoughtless, selfish children – should not delve into adult affairs. And you all are just that; overgrown, selfish children.”

Bunny gritted his teeth, shoving Tooth’s hand away when she tried to placate him. 

“What would you know about kids? Your power eats them up just as much as Time…” he growled.

“Because it is essential and necessary. Do you honestly believe you could save every single child from a tragedy? How egotistical…” Nature scoffed. 

She held up a hand, stopping Bunny from retaliating as she went on. 

“You Guardians are like fruits. You are colorful, sweet, a little acidic at times, and bruise easily. You're individual, and come in many shapes and sizes...” she started, “But you are still just fruits. And as Time marches on, all fruit will begin to rot. And eventually, the fruits need to be thrown away, lest they attract flies or other such insects.

“This transformation from child to adult is the process in which you are thrown away. This is the difference between you Guardians, Pitch Black's people, and mine and Time's charges. You all eventually fade.”

She shot them a nasty look, causing the Guardians to flinch and avert their gaze.

“You, all of you…” she hissed, “You claim that you save and help children. So where were you?”

North frowned, clearing his throat. “We do not understand…”

“Oh do you now? Well let me give you a hint…” Nature snarled, waving a hand deftly. 

Green vapor surrounded her, the foliage of her dress coming alive and creeping from her body. Congealing in a mass of leaves, twigs, insects, and foliage, it began to take shape right before their eyes. Their eyes widened as the shape melded into a more coherent form, long black hair materializing, a little green dress with floral patterns appearing. 

Skin as pale as porcelain shimmered through the green haze, the foliage now completely vanished, leaving behind not but a white and yellow flower in her hair. The little girl looked up at the Guardians, her obsidian eyes saddened and pleading.

_“When’s daddy coming home?”_ she asked, her voice tiny and pained.

Nature scowled at the Guardians.

“Where were you when a little girl’s father was taken from her?”

The girl stepped forward, her bare feet barley making a sound on the wooden floors. The Guardians shuffled back.

_“I made a wish for him to come back, but he hasn’t. Why?”_ the girl asked, eyes landing on Sandy. 

“Wishes and dreams; what good are they when they can’t even bring a man back from the clutches of evil incarnate?” Nature growled.

_“Santa, can you bring daddy home for Christmas? It’s the only thing on my list, it’s all I want!”_

“Wonder, there was nothing left of it when a girl did not see her father come home for Christmas like he promised.”

_“Where’s daddy? Mommy said if I kept hoping and praying, he’d come back…”_

“Hopeless, desolate, the rotten eggs of a girl’s lost childhood…”

_“Did he forget me? Does he even remember me? Mommy, what do his eyes look like again?”_

“Memories are fickle things, and fairies of a girl’s fantasy could not bring her such things – why remember when you can easily forget?”

_“I believe! I believe! I believe…!”_

“I shouted, I screamed and howled these words, but the spell did not work. It did not bring my father back. Instead, a hollow shell was brought to me, and all because the Moon and his predecessor sent a man to his own living hell without any regard for his sanity!” 

With a sob, the girl shattered into pieces of splintered bark and rotting wood; the symbol of a destroyed and decimated child. A child, the Guardians saw, that they had forgotten even existed…

Nature fixed the stunned and pale Guardians a look of utter hatred and contempt. Perhaps it was the shock of an adult looking at them in such a way, or perhaps it was the child in that cold woman’s heart that shook them further. It was a simple fact that adults could not see them, but to be looked down upon by someone who represented an adult, a once child, someone who used to believe in them…

It was so easy to forget why, but it made them ask; when had she grown up?

Nature shook her head, crossing her arms once more. She stared at the pile of rotting wood and splintered bark, the dead leaves and dying insects. This was what she was, she thought. This is exactly what nature represented; death, destruction, and rebirth from the ashes. She was the emerald phoenix of this world, the unforgiving and nurturing, the pain and healing, the despair and joy. She was balance, and she was chaos incarnate. 

She was that who devoured the weak and sick, who destroyed the good and innocent without regret or regard. Mercy was not in her blood, nor was it what she would accept. Mercy from her was a rare, if not unheard of concept, and to expect such a thing from Nature herself, from the very wild and turbulent force of the earth…

A ringing invaded their ears, their vision winking in and out of focus, vertigo nearly toppling them. The bracelets around their wrists throbbed, wounds infected and inflamed, pulsing with magic and venom. A vision of that little girl flashed in and out of their minds all at once, stealing their breath and strangling their hearts. 

And each time she was glimpsed into their vision, she looked at them with hopeless, defeated eyes. Obsidian orbs, not unlike the volcanic glass of the raging mountain she ruled, they were desolate. And yet, the woman behind her, her eyes were black holes. They swallowed and devoured mercilessly, while the girl’s simply purged and poured twin fountains of grief and despair. 

“You failed me,” she said, “You failed so many people, so many lives…”

She eyed Bunny, her scowl intensifying. 

“Your people would be ashamed of you,” she hissed, “They are probably rolling in their graves right now, turning their backs onto you for forgetting what it truly meant to be a Pooka.”

Bunny’s ears fell against his head in pure disbelief. He at first seemed too stunned to give a response, wide, hunter green eyes blinking dumbly at the bold statement. But he no sooner snarled, teeth baring and fur bristling. He trembled, a strange, guttural growling sound emerging from the core of his chest. 

“How _dare_ you…!” he roared, lunging at Nature, completely deaf to the protests of his colleagues. 

Nature did not so much as flinch, and instead sent a single mental command, her eyes radiating a poisonous green glow. Bunny shrieked in mid lunge, falling to his knees and clutching his arm. The bracelet tightened, the snake-like vine hissing and sinking its teeth further into his flesh. His entire arm lit up with veins of green, pulsing and throbbing with an unsteady pulse. 

“Nature, please, stop!” North implored, but no sooner cringed than his own bracelet gave a warning sting. 

Bunny trembled, writhing and groaning on the floor. His legs spastically kicked and shook, teeth grinding and eyes watering with pained tears. Nature stepped over to him, the tips of her slippers inches from his scrunched nose.

“You are the last of your kind, Pooka,” she said flatly, “And somehow, you were picked as the Guardian of Hope. What hope do you have? What hope could you possibly give if you simply have none for yourself?”

Bunny groaned, forcing his eyes open to stare up at the blurry image of Nature. He snarled, spitting forcefully at her feet and missing by a few inches.

“Just like your dad…!” he rasped, his arm pulsing, “Always causing trouble, giving others grief…! You cause nothing but pain and strife…!”

Nature seemed contemplative, thoughtful almost at the Pooka’s words. She cocked her head, hands coming down to fold neatly at her front. And in a nonchalant, almost factual tone, she said, 

“I am what you Guardians made me to be.” 

She waved her hand, and the pain in Bunny’s arm subsided – but not without leaving its mark. Clumps of fur had fallen from the Pooka’s arm and littered the floor, blackened marks and blisters and boils marring the bald spots. There was barely any fur left on his arm, and any patches of skin left unscathed by the poison was pale and thin, blue veins pulsing just under the papery surface. 

The others quickly rushed to the Pooka’s side, but Nature ignored them. She simply watched, her expression of disgust an ugly image on her fair face. 

She made as if to say more, but paused, brows creasing. A shudder climbed up her spine, and the Guardians looked up, as if sensing what she had felt. The walls groaned, the shadows writhing faintly for the briefest moment. The overhead light flickered, before going out completely. They could suddenly see their own breath, clouds of white vapor puffing from their mouths.

A cold washed over them, an unnatural, malevolent cold. Nature’s eyes widened, her face blanching.

“Pitch…” she rasped.

She turned on her heels and ran for Pitch’s room, skidding to a halt down the hall. Pitch’s bedroom door was open, left ajar, and the lights of the hall completely darkened. The cold, oppressive sensation was thicker here, a mark left to stain the air like a snail’s glistening trail over a sidewalk. 

Heart pounding, she rushed for the door, oblivious of Guardians on her heels. She threw the door open, marching inside.

“Pitch!” she called. 

Her breath caught in her throat, face flushing of color.

The room was empty.

 

****

**

~s~S~s~

**

****

 

_**“Pitch. Piiiiitch…come on…”** _

A pained gasp, followed by the deep rasp of nails clawing at the sheer wall of ice. Legs trembling, thin and unsteady, like that of a newborn deer, their knees locked and knocked together as the owner tried to keep up with the dark apparition. His breath escaped him in shuddering puffs of white, stolen and swept away by the cold of the North Pole. 

The cold was not kind here, not even to the weak and dying Boogeyman. Wind buffeted against his bare torso, his toes tinged purple from the cold snow. Not even the thick cotton of his trousers could block the cold from his weakened legs, slowly freezing the bony limbs at the joints. 

A giggle was heard, and he looked up at the dark figure. It skipped over to Pitch, twirling its hooked staff carelessly. It stopped before Pitch, urging him closer.

_**“Come on! Come oooooonnn!”**_ it cackled, _**“Just a bit fuuuurrrtheeerr…”**_

Numbly, Pitch nodded, and pressed on through the snow and ice.

It laughed, skipping ahead around an icy outcrop. The wind seemed to be getting stronger, but it pushed against Pitch’s back, helping him along. He almost smiled, dazed and wistful; even the wind wanted him to find relief. 

He passed the icy outcrop, and looked up. 

The apparition stood at its edge, the jagged cliff overhanging a deep, abyssal chasm. Its lanky form, black as ink, its eyes as hollow and grey as fog. It grinned widely, unnaturally, and held a hand out with its free claws.

_**“Come on,”**_ it said, its form wavering, _**“You’re almost home, Pitch. Just a little further.”**_

Disoriented, his body freezing, Pitch staggered forward, his eyes never leaving the Fearling. Its form wavered still, but it did not relent. Pitch did not fear it as one should. How could he? How could he when it looked just like Jack?

How could he when Jack was taking him to a better place?

_**“Almost theeerrree…!”**_ it growled, teeth sharpening, _**“Hurry! Before the Guardians get you…!”**_

Pitch shuffled forward, his body aching, nearly shattering under the icy strain. He smiled faintly, reaching out for Jack’s hand as he stepped onto the narrow cliff. 

The Fearling grinned, stepping back just until its heels edged over the cliffs pointed end. Its hand still held out, the Fearling urged Pitch forward.

_**“Come over here…”** _

_Crack…!_

_**“And fall.”** _

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No footnotes for this chapter! 
> 
> ~S~


	16. Whispers in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoot! Update! Kind of more or less a bit of a filler chapter, but with bits of very much necessary plot devices.  
> Enjoy, and tell me what you think!
> 
> ~S~

Antarctica was the same as when Jack last saw it a mere day ago. Which seemed odd to him, as he seemed to expect it to have changed somehow. Perhaps he was expecting to see Pitch there again. Or maybe he was expecting to see someone a bit more ominous, like the Jersey Devil. Or maybe even the Guardians, angered and having beaten him to where he was so obviously going. He honestly didn’t know…

He landed beside the familiar spire, his glacial eyes grazing its smooth surface curiously, yet with caution. The weight of the bag he carried over his shoulder was unfamiliar and distracting, but it was also comforting in its own way. Like an anchor to a boat caught in a storm, it kept him from being tossed about like a ragdoll. It kept him grounded, stable. 

Jack’s hand touched the spire, fingers pressing into the cold surface. He had to wonder if anything would become of it, or if it would be left standing as it was till the end of time. 

Jack frowned. The Nightmare sand was a part of Pitch, he surmised. It made him wonder if Pitch could hear him if he spoke to it. He made as if to speak, but paused, uncertain. Maybe he truly was going mad. He was contemplating talking to a lump of ice and sand, what more proof did he need in his mental decline?

“Damn it…” he growled to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

He sighed, looking up at the spire once more. Deciding he had wasted enough time, Jack reached out and, without any effort, broke a tiny spike of the Nightmare Ice – that was what he was going to call it now – off from the spire. He held the little shard in his hands, deftly turning the deadly spike into a simple sphere. The little ice ball was frigid and weighty, odd for such a tiny thing, no larger than a child’s marble. 

He stuffed the marble into his bag, comforted in knowing it would not melt in his presence. Tossing the spire one last glance, he made a beeline for the sheer wall. He found the crag immediately, just the same as it had been in his rather questionable dream. 

He slipped inside, following the narrow path. He had to stop a few times and wedge himself through the more narrow and smaller passages, unhooking his bag from jagged ice and shifting it about. It was slow going, and the frost sprite contemplated trying to make a dash for the end like he had done in his dream. But he digressed, and took his time. 

His hand pressed to his bag every now and again, feeling the rough outlines of the items he carried. His heart raced in his chest, pounding relentlessly like a jackhammer against his ribs. At one point he thought the relentless thudding was Bunnymund on his heels, but a quick look behind himself proved otherwise. He was alone, blissfully and devastatingly so. 

It was…a rather confusing sensation. On one hand, Jack had never felt so relieved in being alone, of being free and away from the voices of contempt and confusion and secrecy. But on the other hand, he was alone. He was on his own, with no one to help or guide him. He only had with him a bag of questionable items, the clothes on his back, Hal’s vague direction, and his dwindling wits. 

Not a very comforting mindset, all things considered. But the frost sprite pushed on. Because if there was one thing he knew was for certain, it was that there was absolutely no turning back. He had gone too far – both in distance and in his actions. The Guardians’ own actions and secrets pushed him further away, only adding to his need to get as far away as possible and to find out as much as possible. As long as he could fix this mess in some way, he would be fine with never being acknowledged by the Guardians, or anyone for that matter, ever again.

Slow and steady as the melt of a mighty glacier, Jack made a snail’s pace trek for the unknown. A part of him was wondering if the door would even be there, or if perhaps his dream had just been that; nothing but a figment of his own imaginings. The small sliver of doubt seemed to sink deeper into his being with each passing second, and yet his feet pushed him forward. 

He reached a familiar outcrop, the cavern beginning to widen somewhat. Hastening his steps, Jack pushed onwards, mentally battling the doubts and questions that seemed to sprout in every corner of his mind like weeds. 

The passages grew larger and more cavernous, permitting him to rush ahead and hopefully – _hopefully_ – outrun his doubts. No such luck was given in his dire situation, but Jack reassured himself on the thought that, no matter his doubts, he was still pushing himself forward without a single glance back.

_‘Just a little further…’_ He could not tell if that was his own thoughts or the voice’s, but it gave him courage, and he quickened his pace.

Finally, he emerged from the passage and into a vast cavern.

But there was no door. 

Jack stared at the back wall, flabbergasted and dumbstruck. No…there was no door, no stone wall, there was nothing but ice in the cavern. There was _nothing here…_

_‘I…I don’t understand…’_ He swallowed thickly, eyes wide and hands trembling.

No, this couldn’t be right. This was not _right_. He had done so much – he had run away from the Guardians, he had been guided by Hal, his dreams, and the voice to this place, but there was _no door._

Did…did he make a mistake? Had he been so delusional in his hopes to fix this mess, that he had completely gone off the deep end and off the edge of his very sanity? 

_‘No, look closer…’_

Jack straightened, slightly stunned and apprehensive. But he latched onto the voice’s words, shuffling closer to the icy wall at the back of the cavern. He was cautious; for he could not afford not to be at this moment. For all he knew, this could be some kind of trap. Though he highly doubted Pitch was in the mental state to send him a dream, let alone set up a trap for him, he knew he had to exercise caution. 

Now closer, he narrowed his eyes on the frosty ice, a wall of frozen water and frigid resolve. He gently poked the wall with his staff; nothing happened outside of a small whorl of ivy-like frost blooming over the ice. He could sense nothing really coming off of the ice; nothing dark and ominous. It was simply ice and sleet, frost and brittle bone of water. 

_‘I don’t see anything,’_ he thought, biting his lip.

_‘Look closer.’_

Jack sighed, but complied. Closing in on the wall, he placed a wide palm over its surface, peering into the ice itself. At first, he saw nothing that gave any indication of a door or anything he saw in his dream. But he paused, his eye passing over something dark in a clearer section of the ice.

Frowning, he squinted and peered closer. There was something dark in the ice, almost black in its hazy veil behind the ice. He rubbed his hand over the spot, clearing away the frost. And there it was; a door handle.

Gasping in reinvigorated anticipation, Jack scurried back a few paces and pointed his staff at the wall. 

Silently hoping, praying, he channeled his energy into his staff, forcing a beam of electric blue light into the wall. And with a mental tug, he began to absorb the ice and its cold, casting it away from what it was concealing from the naked eye. 

Slowly, yet surely, the back wall was revealed, the ice receding as it was commanded away. 

And there in its place, was the stony outcrop, and the iron door.

Laughing in disbelief, Jack shook his head. “I don’t believe it…it’s really there!”

He wasted no more time, but once more called upon his practiced caution in approaching the door. He placed his hand over the cold, metallic surface of the door. He shuddered; it was almost like the steps of Hal’s cathedral. There was a coldness to it that was not from the metal being covered in ice for so long. It was something else; something not so much sinister, but ominous and enigmatic. An unknown of sorts, this strange chill climbed up and down Jack’s arm like an eager insect.

The bracelet around his wrist throbbed, but not painfully, much to his shock. He stared at the green, snake-like vine in trepidation, but it did nothing to harm him. He wondered if perhaps Mother Nature knew where he was and had sent him a warning, or perhaps it was acting as a homing beacon and telling her where he was.

He swallowed, removing his hand from the door. He eyed the lock apprehensively, uncertain and very much anxious. But he had come this far already, he could not simply just turn around and expect things to go back to the way they were. He was simply in too deep now; nothing was ever going to be regained or earned in a simple way anymore. 

_‘Have courage, do not fear that which protects…’_ the voice said.

Though vague, Jack understood the cryptic message somewhat; whatever was behind this door was not going to harm him. But he had to tread carefully, as even the safest haven had its dangers; he learned that quite quickly when he saw nearly the entire kingdom of Sleepy Hallow preparing for war. 

Reaching into his bag, Jack dug around and produced the key given to him by the Homunculus. He turned it this way and that, curious. He hadn’t had a chance to really look at it at first, but now he took a small moment to admire the craftsmanship. 

It was like any decorative wrought iron key, except it was crafted as if by a supernatural force. No rugged bumps or seams were visible on the metallic key. Its handle was a complex piece of art all its own, a strange, woven swirl of black that reminded Jack of a black hole. In its center was what appeared to be a flower; and it bore a strikingly eerie resemblance to the flower drawn on the letter Jack found. On its other end, the ‘teeth’ of the key were a bit indistinguishable. Jagged and angular, the teeth formed strange patterns and angular swirls in a complex array of black metal, a match to the equally complex mechanism in the door. 

There was little doubt this key went to this door, but even Jack had been exercising a bit of doubt. But now, seeing the door, holding the key, and simply _being_ here…

_‘You must hurry,’_ the voice said, _‘Time is running out…’_

Jaw tightening, Jack wasted no more time contemplating his thoughts and decisions. Taking a breath, he held the key horizontally, and inserted it into the lock. It slid in smoothly and without any form of resistance. A click was heard as it slid into place, confirming that it indeed did belong to this lock.

Jack felt a sweat break out over his forehead, but he pressed on despite his nerves. He carefully turned the key clockwise.

_Click!_

He startled, hand tightening around the key handle. But he quickly regained his bearings, testing the key. It refused to turn anymore; the door was no longer locked. 

Jack carefully turned the key back and pulled it out, eyeing the handle in apprehension. Pitch had simply turned it in his dream, in such an easy and unhesitant manner. Yet Jack felt stuck, paralyzed by some unknown force of fear and trepidation. He bit his lip, hand mere inches from the handle, but unable to touch it.

“I…I don’t think I can…”

_‘But you can, you must,’_ the voice urged.

“I’m scared…”

A pause, as if the voice either did not hear him or was contemplating. But it soon spoke once more, its tone gentle yet urging.

_‘He’s right there with you. You are not alone.’_

Something about those words seemed to click something in Jack. He wasn’t sure what it was, or how it happened, but he suddenly felt another’s presence near him. Just at his back, warm and assuring, a solid yet unobtrusive presence. 

Warmth encased his hand, as if someone were gently grasping it. Gently, his hand was guided to the handle, and he firmly gripped it by an invisible urging. The door clicked as the metallic latch was released, and with a careful, ghostly tug, Jack opened the door.

A puff of cool air washed over him as the door yawned open, its gaping maw now open and revealed to Jack. But unlike in his dream, there was no blackness, but a stony passage coated in frost and crystalline icicles. 

The presence behind him seemed to flicker briefly out of existence, and the frost sprite felt himself tense in disturbed and confused resolve. The warmth over his hand intensified for but a moment, before it seemed to disappear altogether. He veered around, eyes wide, expecting to see someone.

But no one was there. Jack was alone. 

…or had he been?

He looked around, expecting to see someone. A small part of him expected to see Pitch of all people, right there behind him, waiting for Jack to make his next move. But there was no one – that heated, feverish presence belonged to not a single physical manifestation, not a single person outside of Jack inhabiting the cavern. 

Yet somehow he knew; that sensation, that presence, had not been some hallucination. Jack just somehow knew; someone had been standing there behind him, perhaps not in a physical sense, but in a sensational state of spirituality. 

But it made him wonder; had Pitch truly been here, right behind Jack and guiding his hand? 

_‘You must hurry,’_ the voice interrupted his thoughts, _‘There is no time!’_

Jack straightened, jaw tightening. He steeled himself then, and turned back to the open door. The stony cavern, chilled with ages of frost and ice, was ominous, yet there was not a single sense of trepidation in Jack. The fear he had felt mere moments ago was gone, devoured by some unknown force. 

He did not dwell on it any longer though. Taking the key from the lock and stuffing it back in his bag, Jack shuffled inside cautiously yet urgently. Nothing happened when he entered the icy cavern, so the idea of a trap going off was left to the back of his very thoughts along with his doubts and hesitance. 

He turned and gave the cavern outside the door one last look, as if to confirm he had come from the icy realm. He at first had to wonder if he was entering some sort of dimensional hole, a rip in reality. The air was different behind the door, more frigid, yet there was an undercurrent to it; something unknown and evasive. The shadows of this cave were still, yet they were so deep and abyssal, Jack had to wonder if he could get lost in one. 

Taking in a deep breath, Jack clenched a fist around his staff. Reaching out with his free hand, he grabbed the door’s inner handle, and shut the door.

Blackness enveloped him, a fact that nearly sent him gasping in a panicked state on the floor. But Jack held himself, forcibly calming his stuttering heart, and holding his staff out. A luminescent blue glow lit up the cavern, casting it in a frosty glow. The crystal-like icicles above him seemed to light up like crystalline daggers, while the whorls of frost and hard snow seemed to glow like luminescent fungi. 

The darkness ahead was a black hole, only ever steadily lit around the edges as Jack stepped closer. Like following a black apparition, Jack pushed himself forward, leaving darkness behind and light in his wake. But even that steadily vanished, only holding a small bubble of blue light that would be chased back into line by the shadows behind, all the while lighting the darkness ahead. It was a chase, a cycle of devouring and recreating. 

Though he stepped in haste, Jack oddly felt like he was trekking through sand. His bare feet made not a sound upon the cold, stony floor. There was a sense of relaxation about him, as if this place could very well be his home – his sanctuary. And he had no idea why, why this place of darkness was so welcoming, so wonderfully cold yet warm. It confused him to no end…

Nevertheless, he pressed on, the cavern walls soon evolving the further he went. Frosty walls soon melted away in streaks, giving way to more architectural stone. The cavern, once a rough, round shape, was soon becoming more square, more like an actual hallway of some sort. 

Jack swallowed, casting cautionary eyes around the slowly transforming cavern. 

“What is this place…?” he wondered aloud, his voice soft and reminiscent of a whisper. 

At first there was no reply, which Jack found both oddly annoying yet expected. It wasn’t long until the icicles above him completely vanished along with the frost on the walls, the cavern now smooth and flat. And it no sooner became apparent that Jack no longer needed the light of his staff. Just up ahead, at a slight incline, there was a burst of light – the end of the tunnel. 

Heart pounding, Jack mentally turned off his staff’s light, and bolted for the exit, anticipation welling up in his gut. 

He had no idea what lay ahead, what this cavern led to. But seeing the walls, the architecture, the darkness and confusion…

_“You will find yourself in a familiar place…”_

Jack had a good idea where he was being taken.

And it was no sooner confirmed than he stepped out of the cavern and into the vast space of grey washed light and murky shadows. 

Pitch’s Realm…

He was in Pitch’s lair, the realm of shadows and Nightmares. 

But it was…different. Emptier somehow. The shadows seemed hollow and lifeless, the light casting them flat and almost one dimensional. The atmosphere was arid and silent as the grave, not a single sign of life anywhere in the once grand realm. 

Jack could only recall small memories of Pitch’s home, the first time he visited being out of desperation and no small amount of curiosity. His sole focus had been on finding his Tooth Box, not in exploring Pitch’s lair, let alone setting free the Mini-Fairies. 

But now, with everything seemingly at a complete standstill, as if abandoned by Time himself, Jack couldn’t help but stare.

Everything, down to the tiniest pebble to the largest pillar was a stony grey washed out with dim and hollow light. It was the perfect environment for shadows, and nothing else. He was standing on the plateau that held the hollow, stone globe – its lights now completely snuffed out. Bridges leading to nowhere and to the unknown, criss-crossed over chasms, the various black rivers and lakes below having somehow dried up completely. Looking up, Jack could see the many cages that used to hold the Mini-Fairies all those years ago, now empty and hanging motionless above him. A few were on the ground though, crushed and mangled from their fall. 

It made Jack wonder if they ever made a sound when they fell. Like the saying of a tree falling in the forest, if no one is around, did it make a sound?

Jack wandered further into the lair, staff held at a defensive angle, just in case something tried to attack him. But a part of him thought this impossible; the sheer emptiness of the lair was stifling, eerie. Like he was in a house that had been empty for years, and only just now he was starting to realize that absolutely nothing was there. 

_‘Does anything even live here anymore?’_ Jack wondered, frowning at the many motionless shadows, _‘Are there any Nightmares or Fearlings here anymore?’_

_‘No…’_ the voice responded, _‘They are no longer here.’_

_‘But why?’_ Jack asked.

A pause, as if the voice were thinking.

_‘Why stay in a prison when the door is wide open?’_ it asked.

Jack shuddered. That’s right, the hole to Pitch’s lair was open now, and he had just unlocked the hidden door in Antarctica. And even besides that, he and the other Guardians had sealed Pitch in the entry part of his lair, not in the actual realm itself. And in turn, they had locked him in a cage with numerous vicious, ravenous beasts…

It made Jack shudder, his jaw tightening and hands clenching. But he knew he could not afford to feel sorry for Pitch right now; he needed to find this room Hal had mentioned. And so casting one last cautionary glance around the lair, Jack took off into the air and started his search.

A half hour passed, and Jack still did not find this mysterious door near a plateau. There were hundreds of plateaus anyways, but very few doors. The few that Jack found had led, what to him, were very strange yet mundane places. 

Jack had never really thought of Pitch as a person up until recently. He never thought he was anything like himself or the other Guardians, or really as any other spirit for that matter. But after exploring his home, he found himself wondering just how he had become so narrow-minded.

He first found a kitchen, something that Jack had been greatly shocked about. As spirits did not need to eat as a requirement, it came as a shock to him that Pitch, the most inhuman person he had known, indulged in such a luxury. Granted there wasn’t a whole lot of food, mostly just tea, coffee, and a few small food items – most of which were now expired. 

Next he found a library – this didn’t surprise Jack nearly as much as the kitchen. If anything, he somewhat expected it. Pitch had always struck him as one to appreciate literature, so finding he had a library was not the least bit surprising. It was huge in a way that seemed to dwarf the rest of the vast and seemingly endless lair. He did not dare venture too far into it though, far too intimidated by the towering bookshelves and stone architecture. 

And finally, Jack found a bedroom – with an actual bed. Odd, Jack thought. He always pictured Pitch sleeping more under a bed than in one. But he figured that was just another stereotype he’d have to work on. The bedroom was rather immaculate, clean and tidy, the bed made and everything in order. The books in the large bookshelves lining a couple of the walls were alphabetized and carefully lined up with one another, a few decorative bookends filling the very few gaps between book spaces. There was a fireplace in the back wall, a small sitting area around it, and a large black desk with some odds and ends upon it on the other side of the room. Lastly was a wardrobe near the door, and Jack had half a mind to look inside it and see what else the Boogeyman may have worn. 

And other than a thick layer of dust on everything, the entire room was perfectly preserved and undisturbed. Cautious, Jack shuffled inside, wondering if this was where Hal had wanted him to be. Although, the Homunculus probably would have specified it was Pitch’s bedroom he was supposed to be in, so he didn’t hold out too much hope in the matter.

He studied the bed, taking in the plush black sheets and gold trim, the sheer black canopy and drapes. The pillows were large and looked very comfortable, yet when Jack tried to imagine Pitch in the large bed, he couldn’t help but wonder at how small he would look in it. Even in one of North’s beds at the Pole, which were half this one’s size, Pitch still looked so tiny, nearly swallowed up by the mass of the bed. 

Jack turned his attention to the desk, hoping to find this supposed map. He found nothing but a few scraps of blank paper, a few wells of ink – dried up from the passing years – and some pens. No map was found among the meager items. 

So he decided to check the wardrobe – both to see if the map was there, and to possibly snoop a bit. Jack would admit he was sometimes a bit too curious for his own good, but it wasn’t like he was raiding a girl’s drawers…

He had always assumed Pitch’s clothes were made from shadows, but upon looking in the wardrobe, he found that perhaps his clothes were just as real and tangible as his own hoodie. A few extra cloaks exactly like the one he used to wear were present, along with a trench coat – black – some boots, a hooded cloak – also black – and a few pairs of pants and leggings were found. 

Jack picked up a cloak, holding the soft, velvety material in his hands by the shoulders. It was so odd; if he tried to picture Pitch in his trademark cloak now, he could only see the Boogeyman practically swimming in it. He had always been a rather thin, willowy spirit, but now he was reduced to a mere twig. He couldn’t see Pitch wearing his cloak anymore, for it was now too big and would probably swallow him whole. It even felt too heavy for such a wisp of a shade…

_‘You must keep going.’_

Jack startled at the voice, but nonetheless complied. But he gave himself a moment to just hold the cloak for a minute longer. There was a scent in the air, strongest in the bed and in the wardrobe; the smell of a burnt forest being doused in rain, earthy and smoky, heady and fertile. It made Jack wonder if Pitch wore a cologne of some kind, or if perhaps this was his natural scent. It smelled good, like home to Jack…

Reluctantly, he put the cloak away and left the bedroom, making sure to close the door behind him. He sighed, leaning against the door as he rubbed his forehead. 

“Where the hell is it…?” he wondered aloud, frustrated.

No answer was forthcoming, much to his disappointment and irritation. He groaned, but forced himself to keep looking. And by the time he had pretty much scoured the entire lair, Jack was at a loss. And just as he was about to give up, he flew to the higher parts of the lair, and came upon a plateau. 

And just alongside it, was a lone balcony – and a door. 

Jack sagged, relieved and exhausted. “Finally…”

He flitted for the balcony, landing swiftly and facing the door. He reached for the knob, but paused, frowning at the keyhole. The keyhole appeared to be that same flower he had seen on the letter and on the key to that passage he took, only much more detailed and lifelike. He could vaguely recall seeing this flower somewhere, its six pointed petals and star-like shape familiar…

He bit his lip. “It’s not locked, is it?”

Once more, there was no answer, and Jack sighed in exasperation. But he decided to take a chance, and grabbed the brass knob. He turned it, and a low, quiet click was heard as the knob turned the entire way, and the door shifted.

It was open. 

Jack swallowed down his pounding heart, and pushed the door open. 

Stepping inside, Jack looked around, giving the room a quick glance about.

It appeared to be a parlor of some sort, or maybe an office. It was a small, cozy room, a large fireplace dominating one side of the room and full ceiling to floor bookcases flanking it. A comfortable sitting area dominated the center of the room just around the fireplace. At the back of the room was an old-looking mahogany desk, dozens of papers scattered over it haphazardly. 

And just on the left side of the room, was a piano.

“Whoa…” Jack breathed, taking in the large, obviously very old, black piano. 

He approached it, footsteps quiet on the stone floor. He took in the thick layer of dust on the bench and the piano itself, the keys covered by a narrow lid. Carefully, Jack lifted the lid, the hinges creaking somewhat as he did. The keys, while covered, were obviously no strangers to use and wear. They were all stained a yellowish color, worn dents in the white keys giving testament to just how much it was used. The black keys were worn and chipped in some areas, but no less beautiful. 

He touched one of the keys, pressing down on it gently.

_Ding…_

“It still works…” he muttered, pressing a few more keys and getting the same result in different notes.

_“Do you still play the piano? I can imagine that old thing still in your parlor, the keys worn lovingly, and the sheet music aging by the day, yet never to turn to dust…”_

Jack could recall the words in the letter he found from a spirit named Sorrows. He looked around, at the plush chairs and couch, the old and worn desk, and the lovingly aged piano at his fingertips. 

This was where Pitch used to play music for others, or read stories from fabled books and tomes. For Hal, for Sorrows, and who knew how many others. 

Jack suddenly felt like he was intruding on some place private, a sanctuary he was never meant to know of or enter. 

_‘Worry not…’_ the voice said, _‘He would have showed you this place one day, if things had been different.’_

Jack swallowed, not the least bit comforted by the voice’s words. But he knew he could not dwell on such thoughts now. He knew this was the right room, and there was a map he needed to find here. 

The most obvious place to look would be the desk, and so he quickly made his way over to it and started looking. Pulling out drawers and opening boxes, Jack found no map of any kind just yet. He could only find numerous papers with an unknown language written upon them, a few office utilities, and a stony, pyramid-shaped paperweight on the desktop. 

And by the time Jack had scoured the entire desk, he was about ready to completely lose face and flip the desk. Gritting his teeth, he fell into the comfortable leather chair behind the desk, at a loss.

“There is no map…” he rasped, “There is _no map…!_ ”

_‘There is though,’_ the voice said reassuringly, _‘You simply have to look closer.’_

“I did look closely! I’m not finding any kind of paper that even resembles a map!” Jack snapped at the air, becoming even more frustrated.

The voice paused, patiently waiting for Jack to calm somewhat. When he did, it spoke once more. 

_‘Who said the map was on paper?’_

Jack blinked, dumbfounded. He felt a tug then, not a physical tug, but a mental one. Slowly, his head turned to look down at the desktop, and at the paperweight. 

It was a simple black stone carved into the shape of a pyramid, no bigger than a toddler’s fist. Frowning, Jack reached out and picked it up, turning it this way and that. His frown only deepened when nothing made itself apparent about the paperweight; except, perhaps, the slight hum of energy within it.

This was no paperweight, Jack realized. It was something infused with magic. 

Jack stared at the little pyramid, as if mentally trying to will it to work in some way, to show him how exactly it was a map. Nothing was happening so far though, and anxiety was quickly welling up inside of him. 

He didn’t have time to play around with some weird paperweight, he needed to see this supposed map _right now!_

_‘Help me…’_ he thought, gritting his teeth in frustration, his hand clenching the pyramid, _‘What do I do?’_

_‘You must tell it what you wish to see,’_ the voice said.

Jack groaned, wanting so badly to throw the little pyramid against a wall to see if that would work any better than these cryptic messages. But he gave pause, contemplating the voice’s words. 

Tell it what he wished to see…he remembered North’s snow globes, and how you told them your destination before throwing them. Was it perhaps something like his snow globes? But there was only one, if he used it now, he would be completely and utterly at the mercy of chance.

_‘Tell it what you wish to see.’_

Jack swallowed, holding the pyramid up in uncertainty. 

“Um…” He paused, trying to think, before he sighed and simply said what he wished to see.

“Show…show me the map,” he said.

The words had barely left his lips before something in the pyramid seemed to react to his words. A hazy, dull light started to grow within its center, obscured by the blackness of the pyramid itself; like light trying to shine through dirty glass. 

Jack gasped as the light erupted from its pointed top, reaching up a few feet into the air, before stopping, and expanding. The light – a faded gold color – seemed to unfurl and bloom like a flower, exposing what it hid within its glowing petals. 

And right before Jack’s eyes, a globe of pure, subdued light was brought into existence over the pyramid, spinning slowly in the very palm of his hand. 

Jack stared, awestruck, before his mouth broke into a grin. He laughed breathlessly, disbelieving yet relieved beyond all measure.

“Oh my god…” he rasped, “This is…wow…”

But he soon frowned, biting his lip. Okay, he now had the map he was looking for. But now what? Was he somehow supposed to use it to find what Hal told him to?

_‘Tell it what you wish to see,’_ the voice said again. 

Jack straightened, eyeing the map, before he spoke.

“Show me…show me the home of the dark spirits,” he said.

The globe paused in its spinning briefly, before it swiftly turned the other way, and stopped until it showed Jack Europe. A bright dot of gold light appeared over Pennsylvania – where Jack was – before it shot in a straight line towards the southeast of Europe, and stopped over one spot, connecting the two areas in a perfect line of light. 

Jack stared, blinking once in astonishment. He read the name of the area where the dark spirit’s supposedly once lived, both parts surprised yet wondering why he never thought of it in the first place.

“The Black Sea…” 

 

****

**

~s~S~s~

**

****

 

She ran – she had no idea what else she could do but run. For all her limitless power, Nature in that moment simply could use none of it to help her in her desperate pursuit of Pitch. 

_‘Where is he, where is he, where is he…?’_ her mind screamed at her.

She paid no mind to the Guardians at her heels, not at all hearing their protests or suggestions on where Pitch was. She knew; she knew exactly where he was. The wind whispered, and the snow spoke of the dark man trudging the drifts – and straight for a cliff overhanging the abyss of a great crag. 

She burst outside, the snow solidifying under her feet for an easier trek. North called out for her, but she ignored him. She vaguely heard his frustrated growl, before the sound of pounding feet in the snow followed her. She almost wanted to snap at them; if they came with her, and Pitch saw them, who knew what he would do? He could do anything from cowering in fear of them to downright attacking them, or possibly trying to escape by…

“Pitch!” she called, her voice being carried effortlessly over the wind and out through the tundra. 

She panted, heart racing, her chest tightening as she turned this way and that, trying to pinpoint where the Boogeyman was. The snow and wind continued to try and guide her, but with the land ever shifting, it was nearly impossible to tell which snowflake was accurate and which current had truly swept past Pitch. 

She stopped, her breath coming out in cloudy huffs of frantic air. She frowned, her ears attuned to every sound. She thought she heard something; someone.

Movement to her left, and with a frustrated growl, Nature called the ice and the wind to her will, and terminated the storm that swirled around her.

Her eyes widened, staring at the two figures at the edge of the cliff mere meters in front of her. The snow cleared from her vision, now reduced to a gentle snow fall, she could only stare at the dark apparition before the Boogeyman.

It looked up at her, so familiar, and yet she knew; she knew better than to think that this was who it resembled. 

_**“Too late~”**_ it sang, just as Pitch stepped forward…

And fell.

“NO!”

She made as if to run for the Boogeyman, but she had no need. Watching as the Russian slid on his stomach towards the crumbling cliff, North swiftly and just barely caught the ashen man by a hand, his free arm clinging to the brittle cliff. 

Nature released an unsteady breath, her heart stuttering in her chest. The other Guardians surrounded her, not daring to step onto the cliff for fear of breaking it while North was still on it.

They stared at the Fearling, gaping in wide-eyed horror at the lanky figure it represented. 

“J-…Jack?” Tooth breathed, mortified. 

The Fearling cackled, spinning in midair freely in a macabre imitation of the carefree winter sprite. 

_**“Tooth! So nice of you to join us!”**_ it laughed, _**“Feel like knocking Pitch’s teeth out again? It’ll be fun~!”**_

Nature snarled, hands glowing a poisonous green in her rage. But she only then slightly calmed as North hauled Pitch and himself off the cliff and onto solid ground, the Boogeyman listless and staring skyward blankly. 

The Fearling seemed to pout, crossing its arms. _**“You’re no fun…you ruined it!”**_

Bunny suddenly snarled and marched over to Pitch. Shoving North aside, the Pooka wrapped his large paw around Pitch’s thin neck and raised him up by his throat. He ignored Nature’s calling of his name, and instead stared into the lifeless eyes of the Boogeyman.

“What did you do to frostbite you sick, fucking _freak?!_ ” he snarled, shaking Pitch.

Pitch said and did nothing, not even attempting to free himself of the Pooka’s clutches. He coughed somewhat, his cheeks turning purple from the lack of blood flow and oxygen. Bunny snarled, tightening his paw around Pitch’s neck, causing the Boogeyman to groan painfully.

“Answer me you worm!” he shouted.

The Fearling laughed manically. _**“Yes! Yes, kill him, let us out you stupid creature! Hahahahah!”**_

Nature snarled, summoning a whip-like vine laden with thorns. Without any hesitation, she cracked it at the Pooka, raking it down his back. Bunny cried out painfully, releasing Pitch as he recoiled and hunched in on himself. All the while Nature caught the Boogeyman in a pile of soft snow, settling him on the ground as she rushed to his side. 

The Fearling cackled mirthfully. _**“Look at you! The great and powerful Mother Nature, reduced to this!”**_

Nature ignored the Fearling, tearing off a large portion of her dress skirt – the material growing back in the blink of an eye – before spreading it over Pitch’s bare, shivering torso. North, at Bunny’s side seeing to his wound, looked up at the Fearling.

“Jack, you must stop this!” he yelled.

“This isn’t you!” Tooth yelled.

Shaking its head humorously, the Fearling floated down closer to the group, twirling its staff casually.

_**“Oh you poor, naïve little Guardians…”**_ it said, _**“I’m touched that you care so much for me after all this time…”**_

“What? What are you talking about?” Tooth inquired fearfully.

_**“Oh come on! You left me alone and completely ignored for nearly three hundred years!”**_ the Fearling exclaimed, spreading its arms out, _**“But the moment trouble arises, it’s only then you even so much as look my way. I can’t help but think it selfish…”**_

Tooth flushed red, whether from embarrassment or shame was anyone’s guess. North suddenly stood with Bunny leaning on one shoulder, looking up at the Fearling pleadingly.

“Jack, please, we know we let you down…” He paused, looking away shamefully. “Not just before we met you, but even now. We hurt you, we kept things from you, we-”

_**“Oh, that’s okay,”**_ The Fearling said, waving a hand nonchalantly, _**“See, I don’t care about all that stuff. I can forgive all that easily…”**_

It grinned at them, a lone, crescent line of grey on a black face below circular, depthless eyes. 

_**“But I don’t think I can forgive you for making me a replacement,”**_ it said. 

The Guardians reeled back as if struck, eyes wide. The Fearling laughed, slapping its knee in mirth.

_**“You really just won’t accept it, will you?”**_ it cackled, _**“Nightlight is dead – he’s been dead for hundreds of years now, and he is NEVER coming back! And you had the gall to use me as a replacement!”**_

It chuckled, nearing the Guardians. _**“Oh sure, I can understand staying away from me. I mean, Nightlight and I look so much alike! It’s little wonder you didn’t want to be near me; I reminded you too much of Nightlight, and that was painful for you.**_

_**“But then again, if you think about it, if you called me to your side, it would be like he never left! All you have to do is keep Nightlight’s existence a secret, lock it away and use me as a vault for those memories and grief. It’s so easy! And hey, after a time, maybe I could become Nightlight! Why else would the Moon choose me? He wanted his Nightlight back, he didn’t want to suddenly grow up because he was without him!** _

_**“And of course there’s you all. You all simply wanted the good times back – the days where magic was alive and thriving, where anything and everything was possible. A time where your precious Nightlight still lived, filling your world with wonder and magic, never to die, and never to fade.”** _

It suddenly paused and took on a contemplative look. Eyes narrowed eerily, it fell silent for but a moment, before its eyes rounded once more and its grin returned.

_**“Why grow up when you can force someone to stay a child for your own benefit?” it asked, “Why grow up, when you can pretend Nightlight, Ombric, and Katherine are still here and-”** _

The Fearling suddenly screeched as Nature’s vine whip cut through it, severing it across the middle. Its legs dissolved into shadowy mush, while its torso remained partly coalesced and tangible. 

“Nature! Do not-!”

“That is _not_ Jack Frost!” Nature snapped at North.

The Russian frowned, before his eyes widened in realization. No, this Fearling could not be Jack…

Jack knew nothing about Ombric or Katherine. 

_**“Heheheh…!”** _

They all looked back at the half-dead Fearling, its maw dripping black sludge, and its eyes unfocused. 

_**“You all will perish…!”**_ it said, cackling, _**“Just you wait. Once the King’s Eye is open, we will be free, and you…oh we will delight in making you scream…!”**_

_‘King’s Eye…?’_ The Guardians thought, confused.

But they somehow did not miss how Nature’s eyes widened and how she paled at the Fearling’s words. She clutched Pitch tightly to her chest, the listless man limp and shivering from the cold, his throat bruised by Bunny’s clutching paws. 

A chuckle, the Fearling hauling itself up onto its spindly elbows, its body starting to deteriorate. 

_**“It’s only a matter of time. There is no one on the Throne now, no one to take the darkness from this world and contain it,”**_ it said, _**“You all have doomed yourselves, and this entire world!”**_

The Fearling wavered, its form collapsing like a rapidly melting candle.

_**“Farewell, Guardians…”**_ it said, voice guttural, _**“Remember, you doomed the children of this world…!”**_

And with one final cackle, the Fearling collapsed completely, vaporizing into a cloud of black that was soon swept away and devoured by the icy wind of the Pole. 

All was silent, left in the mute tundra of snow, ice, and sleet. The Guardians could only stare at where the Fearling once lay, the snow melted and tainted an ugly brownish-grey color. But the silence was soon broken, as Nature rose to her feet with Pitch in her arms – the Boogeyman looking so small in the petite woman’s clutches. 

Without a word, she turned and made her way back to the Workshop, not even sparing the Guardians a glance.

North blinked, before he rushed over to the woman, grabbing her shoulder. 

“Nature, what did it mean? And where is Ja-”

_Snap!_

North hissed, holding his now bleeding cheek. The vine which struck him writhed before retreating back into Nature’s dress like an irritated snake. She stopped but did not turn to so much as look at North. 

“Shut up,” she droned flatly.

Bunny groaned, clutching his side as his back twinged and stung from the long lash he had taken. 

“Damn it all, Nature, so help me…!” he growled, before spreading an arm out, “What the actual _hell_ is going on?!”

“Yes, and where is Jack?!” Tooth added, clutching her arms to shield herself from the cold. 

Sandy formed various images over his head, pointing to the spot where the Fearling was, and throwing up various question marks around a sand figure of Jack. Nature, her back still to the confused and frightened Guardians, said nothing at first. But after a moment, she spoke, but she did not seem to be speaking to the Guardians.

“I must speak with Time…” she said softly.

The Guardians tensed, cringing at the mention of the temporal man’s name. 

“What…what does he got to do with anything?” Bunny asked hesitantly, warily glancing around, as if speaking of Time would summon him. 

Nature once more said nothing, instead looking skyward and up into the overcast, grey sky. She vaguely noted that Pitch’s own skin tone was that of the overcast sky; or at least it had been. Now, he was as white as the snow that fell from the grey sky, bloodless, soulless, hopeless…

She looked down at the man in her arms, his body trembling, parts of his body turning purple as the cold overcame him. His eyes were now closed, trapped in a restless sleep. She tightened her hold on the Boogeyman, her mind racing a mile a minute. She sighed.

“We must decide,” she said simply.

“Decide what?” North urged, “Nature, please, tell us. What must you and Time decide to do?”

Nature frowned, her red lips pulling into a thin line. Her dark hair snapped and rustled in the sighing wind, her form motionless, yet unable to hold completely still. 

Tucking the torn cloth of her skirt tightly around Pitch, she marched for the Workshop, her last words carrying on the wind and through the Guardians’ ears. 

And the words she spoke made them nearly collapse in utter disbelief and terror.

“Whether we should destroy this world, or not…”

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No footnotes for this chapter! Weird...
> 
> ~S~


	17. The Slightly Chipped Full Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writers block SUUUUUUUUUUCKS~  
> Enjoy!

She laid the frail man upon the bed once more, checking for any injuries or variation of harm perhaps left on his withering body. None were apparent, aside from the few scars he already had prior to the incident. His toes and fingertips were tinged purple from the cold, his form trembling spastically. 

Nature scowled, touching a finger to the scar upon Pitch’s chest. The waxy, welted skin was cold as ice, but no less tangible. And yet she knew better; this was no ordinary scar, and she knew that something devious lay just below it. Or perhaps it was a means to an end; she honestly could not be certain. The Boogeyman trembled under her gaze, skin chilled and numb to sensation.

She considered the blankets around the Boogeyman, almost scrutinizing the too heavy swathes of fabric and thread. In the end, she relented, draping the thick quilt and blanket over the frail man’s form. 

And then she watched him. For a long handful of minutes, she watched him breathe, watched him sleep. 

But then Nature scoffed; sleep, what a joke. This was no sleeping man, this was something else entirely. She could not liken it to anything at the moment, but she knew that Pitch was not simply asleep. His body may be there with her, his eyes closed and his breath deep yet trembling with cold and an unknown unease in his frail lungs. But his mind…it was elsewhere.

Her eyes narrowed, not even reacting to the four presences approaching the door to the Boogeyman’s room. 

Heavy knocking was heard then – or perhaps the proper word would be pounding. Nature closed her eyes, sucking in a deep, calming breath. Sadly, this did nothing to calm her demeanor, and the demanding shouts following the harsh knocking only seemed to aggravate her further.

“Nature! Open this door right now!” 

She swore, she was going to be the one to cause the absolute extinction of the Pookan race if that insufferable rabbit did not _shut up…_

Turning swiftly, Nature shuffled for the door and opened it. The Pooka, paw raised in a fist to continue his assault on the door, seemed surprised she even answered the door. Behind him, the others all seemed to be in various stages of shock and uncertainty. It was quite a fitting scene, all things considered, yet it was no less aggravating. 

“What?” Nature hissed lowly.

Bunny scowled, ears pinning back. “Don’t ‘what’ us sheila, we’re the ones who need to be asking just _what_ is happening here.”

“If it isn’t obvious, then I won’t waste my breath trying to explain,” Nature deadpanned. 

Bunny snarled, his skin flushing red under his fur. North laid a hand on his shoulder, urging him back and away from Nature. The Russian took up the Pooka’s spot, fists clenched at his sides. This was a first to Nature, for she had very rarely, if never, seen North looked so flustered and confused. Yet there was a certain understanding in his eyes, an almost tangible means of denial and disbelief. 

He understood just what she had meant back in the drifts. He just didn’t want to believe it.

_‘How typical…’_ she thought acidly. 

“Nature…” he started, his voice raspy and almost breathless, “Is it true? Tell us you were lying, that you did not mean what it was you said when-”

“You dare to presume me a liar?” Nature hissed.

“No!” North amended, back straightening, veins pulsing in his muscular arms, “We simply…we do not _understand!_ ”

“I should think not…” Nature muttered. 

The Guardians all backed away as she moved forward and out of the doorway, as if propelled by an invisible force. Nature shut the door to Pitch’s room before she easily swept past them like an icy ghost, and made her way to the Globe Room. 

Confused, the others followed her, but uttered not a word. Nature’s malevolence and agitation radiated off of her like heat from a furnace. It stung, burned them, prickling at their nerves like spiders creeping all over their bodies. Entering the Globe Room, the Guardians watched Nature with their eyes, uncertain as to what she was doing, or planned to do. But she did nothing, simply stood before the globe with her hands held loosely at her sides, her gaze locked relentlessly on the slowly rotating orb. 

The Guardians took note of the lights spotting it, each one flickering like dying little stars, fireflies caught in a spider’s web and struggling for freedom. It was a painful, blaringly obvious reminder of their mortality and coming demise. They couldn’t say when, but they knew – soon each and every one of those lights would go out, and they would lose their power and be completely helpless and at the mercy of the spirit world’s judgement. 

It was not a comforting thought, but they could do little to nothing about it. It was not like they did not try to though; Sandy still sent out his dreams to sleeping people everywhere, Tooth mentally directed her fairies in collecting teeth and leaving money, and preparations for next year’s Christmas and Easter were still moving along by North’s Yeti and Bunny’s warrior eggs and sentinels. 

As for Jack…no one could say what he was doing, or how he was doing. All they could do was wonder where he had gone.

Hands tightening at his sides, tattoos stretched taut over his large arms, North finally spoke to the Nature Queen. 

“Nature…” he started, “What did that Fearling mean about this ‘King’s Eye’? What is so awful about this eye, that you think you and Time must destroy the world?”

He looked around nervously, as if the very mention of Time’s name would summon him. But no other presence was made apparent, much to his relief. 

Nature said nothing at first, only continued to stare up at the globe contemplatively. She seemed to be studying it, the various lights flickering in and out of existence on its surface. She frowned, watching as a rather large cluster of lights flickered out completely, never to light up again; never to live or see the next holiday. 

Death circled this globe like the rings of Saturn. The Guardians may not be able to see him, but she could. His shadowy form flitted about the globe like a circling vulture, his presence unobtrusive, yet unmistakable. At one point, she thought perhaps their eyes locked, but even she could not be certain. Death was unavoidable, and yet he was as elusive as the shadows, and his presence was just as questionable as that dark glimpse one catches out of the corner of one’s eye, only to look and see nothing there. 

Patience drawn thinner than the horizon, Bunny finally stormed over to Nature, but kept himself at a reasonable distance from the powerful woman. 

“Damn it Nature, tell us!” he shouted, “What was this stupid eye that sick thing spoke of? And destroying our whole world? Why?! What right have you that you can decide an entire planet’s fate?!”

Nature blinks once, as if clearing her vision of the black apparition that was Death, completely ignoring or oblivious to Bunny’s shouting. Turning her head up, she looked to the ceiling and skylight. The Moon was more than partly hidden behind smoggy clouds, its light dim, almost as if it were trying to hide. Nature scowled, disgust blooming over her tongue. 

“I know you heard me,” she said tightly, her voice not betraying her apparent anger and frustration, “Stop playing games, and show yourself. You are picking a bad time to be casually late.”

Bunny made as if to make a comment about Nature’s rambling, but no sooner did he open his mouth than he felt his voice literally catch like a fly in a trap in his throat. He choked, coughing soundlessly as he clutched his throat, gasping for breath. The other Guardians gasped – but no sound escaped them. 

Disorientated, disjointed, the entire realm around them tipped and tore off its hinges like a flimsy pantry door. Each Guardian suddenly found themselves struck deaf and mute, their vision tilting in a dizzying disorientation of the senses. Only one sound was made apparent, and it rang as loud and true as a dying man’s final breath.

_Gong…gong…gong…_

The swaying pendulum of the grandfather clock in the lounge area sang its hollow, bellowing tune. A shudder climbed up the Guardians’ spines as a presence all too familiar filled the entire Workshop in a flood of distortion and agonizing displacement. 

The chime of the clock soon stopped after the twelfth gong, and suddenly, the entire atmosphere was frozen. Or rather, time itself had come to a complete standstill, freezing Yeti and Elf alike in their places, expressions frozen in displays of anxiety and fear of what was happening. The air was thick, so heavy and suffocating, chilled down to its very core. Movement was difficult, and throats were somehow flooded with that timeless stillness. As if they were under water, the Guardians felt compressed, stifled and smothered in this wavering reality.

A chuckle was heard, low and breathy, so very familiar, yet no less ominous. 

In a slow, stifled motion, the Guardians turned their heads towards the Yeti’s work area. Their breath caught further in their throats, constricting and burning. 

Time smiled, sitting perched casually on a frozen Yeti’s workbench and inspecting what appeared to be a toy soldier. His closed eyes were sightless, and yet he looked over the toy as if he were inspecting it for any flaws or defects, prying open its backing to inspect its inner workings. He sighed in disappointment.

“Honestly, I liked it better when toys were simpler and composed of clockwork,” he said, holding the toy by its leg in disdain, “I had hoped the trend would make a comeback this era.”

As if to emphasize his point, he tugs on the toy’s head and leg, the limb breaking off with a pop and a crack of strained plastic. North hissed painfully, as if the toy’s pain was shared between him and it. 

Nature stepped forward, arms crossing over her chest. “You are late.”

Time chuckled breathily, turning the toy this way and that, as if he did not hear Nature; or perhaps he did not wish to acknowledge her just yet. Humming, he dropped the toy to the floor, and looked up at the irate woman.

“I am Time, dear Nature,” he said, “I am neither late, nor early, nor on time.”

Suddenly the world caught up to the Guardians, their standstill now disrupted. The air was still thick and heady though, as if their lungs could not completely handle the very energy Time put out into their atmosphere. Their breath entered and rushed from their bodies like sludgy water, murky and thick. Free of the spell, the Yetis and Elves immediately gave wide berth to Time, every single one of them trembling and looking on in fear and trepidation. 

Time cocked his head, smiling serenely. He tucked a wavy strand of platinum silver blonde hair behind his ear, and pushed off of the workbench.

_Crunch!_

North cringed as the temporal man’s cog-heeled boots landed on the toy soldier, crushing it utterly and completely. Casually twisting his heels on the toy, the temporal spirit leaned back against the workbench and crossed his arms.

“Now then, you wished to discuss a slight matter with me?” he inquired, his sightless gaze on Nature.

“ _Slight matter?!_ ” Bunny snarled, his voice breathless from the suffocating hold of Time’s presence gripping his throat, “You’re talking about ending the world you son of a-”

A head of platinum hair and unseeing eyes turned to the Pooka, and the rabbit immediately felt his own words catch in his throat again. He reeled back as if struck, fur standing on end and ears prickling. Time stared at him, a strange feat in and of itself, considering his eyes were closed. But nonetheless, the powerful entity was not without command, nor was he without the power to silence those he views as below him.

He smiled at Bunny, causing the Pooka to bristle and lower his gaze submissively. He gritted his teeth in utter anger and loathing, shoulders bunching as the temporal man’s heavy and unnatural gaze weighed him down like a load of cinder blocks. 

Time chuckled.

“My, this is quite a tense atmosphere…” he commented, strolling around the work area and surveying the numerous toys and trinkets, “Surely my dear Nature has not been so awful a house guest?”

“Quit it, Time, and be serious for once,” Nature growled through gritted teeth, “You know what it is we must discuss, and you acting like nothing is wrong isn’t helping or amusing anyone.”

Time scoffed, before he paused. His smile widened, and in the blink of an eye, he swiftly reached under a table and procured the Elf hiding under it. Holding it by its pointy hat, he chuckled as it screeched and struggled, terrified for its life. 

“Time!” North snapped, though he tried to compose himself into a more complacent state, “Please…put Elf down…”

“Oh but North, I was under the impression you were serving refreshments,” Time said, smiling widely, his sharp canines flashing, “They’re so cute, I could just eat them up…”

The Elf screeched loudly as Time brought the little man up to his face, grin impossibly wide and teeth sharp. He either ignored or did not hear the Guardians making loud and very adamant protests, several Yeti and other Elves crying out and fleeing the scene for their very lives.

“Time!” This time it was Nature who snapped at the temporal man, her painted lips pulled into an ugly snarl. “Put it _down_ …”

“Oh have a sense of humor, my dear,” Time said flatly, his once vicious resolve reversing back into his more serene disposition, “I merely jest…”

As if to prove his point, he dropped the terrified Elf at his feet. The little creature scrambled onto its twiggy legs and fled to a waiting North, the Russian scooping it up protectively in his hands. Time chuckled as the man gave him a horrified look, shrugging as if he were confused by the odd expression. 

“Elves give me indigestion,” Time said, only adding onto the horrifying implication. 

Nature clenched her fists, grinding her teeth in irritation. “I will not be kept waiting, Time. Mock and harass them if you must, but do it when the situation does not call for your attention. You know what is happening, and what _will_ happen.”

The corners of Time’s mouth dropped a scant bit downwards, but he did not completely lose his sense of amusement or nonchalance. Sighing, almost dejected, the others (sans Nature) tensed and veered back as the man rushed at them in a blur of motion and warped time and space. He was before them in the blink of an eye, arms crossed over his narrow chest. 

“You’re no fun…” he muttered, before sobering somewhat, “But I suppose you are right my dear. One must be serious in a serious matter…”

He almost sounded scandalized, pouty almost. It was eerie and disturbing to the Guardians. Nature, however, did not even bat an eyelash. 

“Enough,” she said icily, “You may have all the time in the universe and beyond for your games, but this world does not.”

“Yes, yes, yes…” sighed Time.

The Guardians backed away as he casually strolled past them and towards the hallway from which they had come from. Nature followed him wordlessly, confusing the Guardians. As if sensing this, Time called over his shoulder.

“I must assess the damage you Guardians have wrought on the vessel,” he said, “You know, before we resort to drastic measures.”

The Guardians made as if to protest – but no words could escape their mouths. Nature ignored them and strode past them with determined steps, nearly speed-walking after the temporal man. 

“Nature!”

The named spirit growled, turning with such viciousness that it prompted the pursuing Guardians to take a few scrambled steps back. She clenched her fists at her sides, not the least bit impressed by their stunned and intimidated expressions. 

“What?” she hissed impatiently. 

North cleared his throat. “We…Nature, we simply wish to-”

“Nicolas,” Nature seethed, nearly snarling the man’s name and thoroughly quieting the Russian, “Unless you wish for this entire mess to completely blow up in your face, I suggest you keep your mouth shut, your opinions to yourself, and let me handle the man.”

“But we-”

“Silence,” Nature interrupted Tooth, before straightening, “Funny, one would think you lot want the Earth to completely destroy itself, what with how you are keeping me from making sure Time does not eat Pitch*.”

The Guardians hissed, chastised and thoroughly dressed down from both the scolding and Nature’s accusatory tones. But none of them could argue her logic; Time devoured all things natural and not…

No one made as if to speak, too chastised and intimidated by the irate, powerful woman. She glared at them for a moment longer before scowling, finally fed up with the silence. 

“I have no time for this,” she growled, chasing after Time once more.

Though she would never admit it, she was worried; not for Time, but Pitch. Time was a powerful, wily man, and an almost sinister force. If he deemed it worth his time, he could snap Pitch in half or completely erase his existence from the face of history. And this was if he was just bored. Time held no empathy, but did not yield under apathy. Unlike Nature, he didn’t need a reason to go with his actions or decisions. Nature made the seasons change and death and life dance for the good of the planet and everything on it; Time kept the planet turning not because he had good reason, but because he had no reason aside boredom. 

Humans were the ultimate entertainment to him after all. But eventually, even he would tire of their idiocy and pathetic antics. It was Nature’s job to keep humans evolved and adapted; to keep them interesting. Time’s job was to watch, wait, listen, and decide. 

And right now, he could decide Pitch was too much trouble to keep around. He could decide the now catatonic man was too boring to keep around. He could even decide to reset the entire mess and make it ten times worse than it already was.

Time was ruthless. Time was not kind, nor cynical. Time was _mischievous._

Nature growled, storming into the room that held Pitch and the deadly time lord. Her scowl intensified, hands clenched at her sides and feet planted firmly in the doorway.

Time was a horribly talented actor, and his moods were as shifty and sudden as the crashing waves of a stormy beach. And right now, she could only just barely make out the gears turning at a dangerous rate in his head, that serene, _pleased_ smile upon his full lips suddenly as sharp as blades plunged into her red gut. 

Eyes black as ink, body trembling and mad smirk unwavering, Pitch’s possessed body faintly struggled against Time’s hold on his throat. Though the possessed man choked slightly at the tight grip, he was openly smirking a toothy smile, blackened eyes wide and depthless.

_**“Fucking meddlesome fool…!”**_ he rasped in that warped, shrill voice.

Time quirked a brow, smile becoming wry as he turned his head to look at Nature.

“You would think after a few millennia, your father’s ‘house guests’ would have learned some manners,” he said.

In response, the Fearling possessed man spat at Time, landing a black lump of spit on his cheek. Time chuckled, long tongue peeking out from behind his lips to lick away the shadowy saliva from his cheek. 

“What an impudent little monster,” he hissed pleasantly. 

Pitch cackled, long and loud, his throat pulsing against Time’s hand.

_**“You are a fool! What hope do you have of reversing the damage done?! You won’t even go back in time and prevent this, what makes you think that you can somehow fix it now?!”**_ it snarled. 

Time hummed, cocking his head slightly. He seemed intrigued, curious almost. And yet, there was a disquieting sense of morbidity there. One would be reminded of a strange child poking at the carcass of a dead animal. And perhaps to Time, he was simply doing just that; examining the husk of a former man that was now housing parasitic insects feeding off of the body’s remains, squirming, writhing, and putrid. 

“Time…” Nature hissed in warning.

The temporal man turned to look at her, eyebrows raised, as if he were surprised to see her there. But only a fool would actually believe the man to be surprised in any way, shape, or form. 

“Are you certain you wish for the _children_ to be here?” he asked, gesturing to the four Guardians huddled behind the nature spirit.

Nature scowled. “Do not play games, Time. If you harm him anymore than these pests already have…”

The threat was unsaid, but understood. Not that Nature could actually hurt Time, but even still. An annoyance could go a long way in the long run, and even Time had limited patience in that regard.

He sighed, clicking his tongue. “It’s such a hassle having people see me get moody. It kills the mood.”

He smiled at Nature’s fuming expression, before turning back to the possessed man now clawing at his arm, leaving his tunic sleeve in shreds. He eyed his ruined sleeve momentarily, almost pouting. 

“Don thou stein glos Asthroa?” Time muttered, startling the Guardians.

At first unnervingly startled, the possessed Boogeyman started laughing uproariously.

_**“He speaks! He speaks!”**_ he cackled. Time hummed thoughtfully, while Nature bit her lip anxiously. 

“How quaint…” Time muttered, before loosening his grip enough on Pitch’s neck to grasp his narrow jaw, “Now then, on to business. Thy Majis Optica, eet sha opa?”

Pitch only laughed more, as if Time had told the possessed man the funniest joke in the world. The Guardians flinched at the warped sound, sickened. But Time did not even flinch, did not even change his expression. Nature though was becoming more and more aggravated, but held herself firm to her spot, waiting, watching. 

Suddenly the Boogeyman sank his claws into Time’s arm and yanked him forward, his deadly mouth rasping against the temporal man’s ear. In a voice too quiet for anyone but Time to hear, he started to whisper something to him, body trembling, teeth gnashing, as if silently threatening to bite off Time’s ear. Time hummed in acknowledgment every now and again, making tiny, immaculate gestures of understanding, intrigue, and question. But he never once spoke, never voiced a question or comment. 

Pitch chuckled, whispering more words into Time’s very ear. He almost seemed curious now, a small, serene smile breaking out over his full lips as he was enticed with words by the Boogeyman. 

Time chuckled suddenly, expression coy. 

“My, what a lovely little game you are playing…” he purred, “It’s a shame you are going to lose.”

Pitch’s smirk widened, his clawed hands digging into Time’s forearm, leaning into the temporal man’s personal space.

_**“Fuck you,”**_ he hissed.

Time frowned, but said nothing, never giving any indication of truly being offended. He sighed, leaning away from the other man and releasing Pitch’s jaw to grasp his neck again. The Fearling possessed man only dug his claws further into his forearm, but did not draw blood. Time smiled, giving his neck an experimental squeeze.

“Well, it’s an answer at the very least,” he said, before leaning in towards Pitch, “Now, go back to sleep, majesty.”

He huffed a cloud of strange blue fog into his face, and Pitch immediately went limp against the headboard, eyes closed and breath rhythmic, head lolled to one side. Without an ounce of care, Time grabbed the claws imbedded in his arm and tore them out, silvery, star-laden blood welting to the surface. 

One of the Guardians – North – cursed and moved forward to tend to the horrendous wound. But he was stopped by a dainty hand in his face from the Nature spirit.

“He is fine,” she hissed.

Time looks at her, feigning a wounded look. “Why dear, you wound me. Why not let the man kiss it all better for me?”

“Your blood is toxic and he knows it,” Nature growled.

Time chuckled, shrugging. He removed his shredded glove and pushed up his sleeve, pressing the white glove into his wounds.

“Well, I heard what I needed to hear,” he said, looking to the Guardians, “Now it is time for good little children to go to bed.”

“You-?!”

Nature shot Bunny a scathing look, silencing the seething Pooka. Without another word, Time gracefully strode towards the four spirits, causing them to shuffle back and out of the doorway. He smiled, bright and assuring – and yet behind that lovingly painted smile, there was a dark promise.

“Mommy and daddy have much to discuss…”

The door slammed shut without another word uttered in time to protest. Now alone, Nature growled audibly and stormed towards Pitch to right him into a more comfortable position. Time sighed, removing his glove and bringing his forearm to his face, licking his bleeding wounds. 

“You have got _some nerve_ …” Nature hissed, laying Pitch down properly on the bed.

“Mm?” Time looked up, delicate brows raised, long tongue pressed to a puncture wound.

Nature scowled, forcing herself to gently and calmly tuck the blankets around Pitch’s body.

“You, and your damn games,” she hissed, “What did he say to you? What did those _things_ say?”

If one could see his eyes, Time would have rolled them in exasperation. Impatience was just as much a pet-peeve of his as anything else would be. Although, perhaps he was being biased; he literally had all the time in the world to play his games and mess with people. Nature had quite a bit, but not a limitless amount like him. So perhaps her impatience was justified. 

Running his uninjured hand through his silvery blonde hair, he seemed to survey himself in a mirror mounted on a vanity beside him. Nature bristled.

“ _Time_ …” she growled.

“Oh hush, dear, you know how such encounters affect beings like us,” Time said offhandedly. 

“If you are so stressed, then make this quick,” she gritted through her teeth, “There are more important things to worry about than your insatiable hunger. Now, what did that thing say to you?”

Time sighed, chastised, but not deterred. He turned back to her, smoothing the front of his tunic.

“Have you any idea where that adorable frost sprite has gone?” he inquired.

“You know damn well where he is, you egotistical sociopath, _stop changing the subject_ ,” Nature snapped. 

“Humor me, my dear.”

Nature wanted nothing more than to scream, rave, and pull her own and the temporal man’s hair out. But like the leech he was, Time’s very presence drained every ounce of fight in the nature spirit, leaving her drained and exhausted; worse yet, it left her complacent. 

Sighing in exasperation, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose, she sat down heavily on her stump chair and answered. 

“He was in Pitch’s lair, so I suspect he will be going to the Black Sea soon,” she said, “But he has changed course and gone to New Jersey, or so the trees there tell me so.”

Time smiled. “How daring.”

“Stupid more like…” Nature sighed, “…I am serious, Time, what did they _say?_ ”

Time hummed thoughtfully, looking around the darkened room in curiosity. Crossing his arms, he leaned casually against the wall by the door, propping one heel up against the wall.

“It is inevitable,” he said, “I can see it, even now, what is to come. There is no way to stop it.”

Nature scowled, shutting her eyes tensely. She inhaled deeply, as if to calm herself, before speaking again.

“And the outcome?” she asked softly. Time shrugged.

“Is for none but myself to know,” he said, “But I will say this, it isn’t going to be a pleasant event.”

“So we must destroy this world and start over,” Nature said stiffly.

“I never said that,” Time said, looking to his right and down at the vanity desk decorated with a few trinkets and a toy or two, “I am simply implying our chances of preserving this current world is slim at best…”

Reaching down, he picked up a snow globe. He shook it gently, watching the fake snow fall over the wintery landscape and little pine trees. He cocked his head, turning it this way and that. He strode towards a closed window, carefully pulling back the curtain to stare up at the clear sky. The full Moon blared down at him, wide and round as an innocent child’s blind eye. He smiled, pressing his ungloved hand to the window pane glass, tracing the Moon’s outline almost lovingly.

“What a lovely, ugly little thing,” he crooned, staring up, as if speaking to the Moon itself and its occupant, “The full Moon, just slightly chipped at the edges, as stable as the single mind inhabiting it.”

Nature watched the temporal man, making no move to speak or pry the information she wanted from him. After all, it was rude to interrupt a conversation between the Moon and Time. 

Time raked his sharp, immaculate nails down the glass pane, just across the Moon’s face. 

“It’s rude to lie to your children, let alone keep such a dangerous secret from them,” he said, smiling.

He chuckled, looking into the globe once more.

“The Moon knows more than his little soldiers think, it’s amazing how they haven’t wondered why he hasn’t spoken to them this whole time,” he muttered.

“The Guardians are fools, they know nothing,” Nature deadpanned. Time shrugged.

“Oh I agree, truly I do. But you have to admit, their immature antics are rather amusing…” Time said. 

Nature’s expression could have melted iron. “You think _this_ ” – she pointed to Pitch, frail and shattered – “Is _amusing?_ ”

“I think you are forgetting just who you are speaking to, dear,” was Time’s wry droll, “You know how easily bored I get.”

Nature only gritted her teeth, but made no move to respond. He was right though; somehow she seemed to occasionally forget that Time practically fed off of this kind of drama. Being omniscient had its perks, but it also had its price. For Time himself, the perks were that he knew everything. But the price of it was, _he knew everything_. He was never surprised, never shocked or any relating emotion to such things. Life to him was extremely boring, and the only means of entertainment consisted of idiotic humans marching towards their graves at the earliest time, or changing their timelines for the worst. It was only funny to Time because he knew each and every human had a great potential, but only one out of a million achieve that potential. The rest of those people become Time’s jesters.

The sadness of such an existence that the humans were unaware of was rather disheartening to most. To Time, it was hysterical. 

Nature sighed, rubbing her forehead. “Can you please be serious for one minute and just tell me; what do _we_ do?”

“ _We_ don’t do anything,” Time said casually, “As I said, the fate of the world lies in the frost boy’s hands and in whether or not your father can do what he was truly born to do.”

“You mean to say, that after all that has happened…”

Time nodded. “Make no mistake though, lives will be lost. Spirits, humans, and everything in between. In a sense, this world will start over without our help.”

“You are talking about a great catalyst.” Nature frowned.

“Perhaps. Normally people like us orchestrate such things, but in this case…” – an excited grin stretched Time’s lips – “The beginning of a new age, a new _timeline_ …it will be delicious.”

“You are sick.” Nature scowled.

“Merely practical,” Time said, perching himself upon the window sill.

“Don’t give me that shit, Time,” Nature snapped, striding over to the temporal man, “I know you, and you are not what humans label you to be. Angels* have no right to decide the world’s fate.”

“And yet, here I am.” Time smiled serenely. 

“Make no mistake, Time, I know what you are planning,” Nature continued, “You can say all you like about a new era or a new age, but I can see right through it. I can see what it is you want…”

“And what is that?” Time asked with feigned curiosity.

Nature’s glare deepened. “This timeline is doomed and you know it. You’re not fixing it, but not because there is a chance of it fixing itself, but because you _want_ it.”

Time’s smile widened, his delicate brows lowering, eyelids fluttering faintly. Dangerously*.

“You hide it well from those simpletons, but I can see it clear as day…” Nature said, pressing a sharp green nail into Time’s belly.

“You are _mad_ with hunger, and we both know what can sate such a thing.”

A low, airy chuckle, pleasant and soft.

“The devouring of a timeline, of a whole _universe_ …” Time shuddered. “It has been literal ages.”

Nature stepped back once, as if stung. But her expression did not relent, and she only held Time’s sightless gaze like a snake staring down a blind mouse. 

“I would not be surprised if you instigated this whole thing,” she said.

“And how would I do that?” Time asked in almost, _almost_ , genuine bewilderment, “It goes against my very nature to interfere with the timelines, unless it is absolutely necessary.”

“And if you deem _this_ event ‘necessary’?”

A pause, Time cocked his head curiously, brows raised. He seemed quite baffled almost, but Nature knew better. He may be mildly impressed that she caught on so quickly, but he was anything but surprised. 

His grin was vicious, not at all like the serene, gentle smile he usually boasted. If there was anything in this universe that could make a Demon run away screaming, it was the full, heavenly smile of an Angel. 

“Then I must do what is deemed necessary for _all_ , not just myself,” he said, “And besides, you don’t actually know what’s going to happen, and to a point, neither do I. Time is a tricky thing, ever shifting and ever changing, just like the ocean.”

“Get to the point, Time,” Nature said.

He chuckled softly, holding the globe closer to his face, as if to try and peer into it and see the tiny figures of children playing in the miniature forest in its watery sphere. 

“My point is, is that our last hope rests on the shoulders of a little winter sprite,” he said, “Time is running out, but I can see little shifts, little breaks in time itself. Like something is just starting to writhe beneath the surface, aching to break free…”

Time slid off the window sill, and Nature tensed as he approached the unconscious Boogeyman. He sat on the bed’s edge, one leg crossing neatly over the other. Nature flinched as he reached out, delicately tracing Pitch’s brow and shallow cheek.

“What a lovely, hideous creature…” he purred, “Like the rotting corpse of a caterpillar in a cocoon…” 

He laughed softly, lowly, before turning the snow globe so its bottom was facing his mouth.

“Pay attention, Guardians, this is going to be one hell of a game,” he spoke into the hidden speaker.

One the other end, the Guardians said nothing, only stared at the speaker with blanched faces and wide, terrified eyes.

Time only laughed. 

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to MantaDrifter for help in coming up with the name of the language Time used with Pitch!
> 
> Translations-  
> “Don thou stein glos Asthroa?”   
> "Do you still speak Astrala?"
> 
> "Thy Majis Optica, eet sha opa?”  
> "The King's Eye, it shall open?"
> 
> Some of these words are derived from their Latin or related lingual words.
> 
> Footnotes.
> 
> 1.) The phrase, 'time devours all' is not just a metaphor in this canon. Though time itself wears down mountains, dries seas, and decimates all that ages, the actual being of Time does more than that. This makes him dangerous, as he does not just devour the physical body, but all that comes with it - past, present, future, memories, even the very idea of the person or thing's existence. 
> 
> 2.) To clarify a bit more, yes, Time's species is Angel. There are MANY definitions of 'angel' in the human language, and MANY theories as to what angels are specifically. Here, Time is a more sinister kind of Angel, something primordial and without origin, god, birth, or death. He is something that never existed, but also something that didn't not exist. He is, by all accounts, unfathomable, and without sense or comprehension. 
> 
> 3.) A bit of a clarification of Time's eyes. Time is, so far, the only character I know of in any existing fandom that can kill you by BLINKING.
> 
> ~S~


	18. Pain and Mercy

Blackness.

Silence.

Frigid air.

One would think they were in a cold storage, or perhaps in the freezer of a morgue. But right now, Jack could think of nothing to compare the empty void to. His entire mind was utterly lost, sunken into an equally black abyss of nothingness. It was almost like he himself did not exist, his consciousness lost, washed away by unseen waves. 

This place, this blackness, where I did not exist, nor we or me, where self was simply a word and held no true meaning. He blinked, but all remained as it was. Time stood still here – time did not exist here. Rather, existence did not exist in this dark place.

And yet, he still found himself – disjointed, not actually himself – staring into the forlorn amber gaze of the Boogeyman. 

“Where are we?” he asked – or so he tried to. But he couldn’t seem to open his mouth. His entire body was relaxed, yet inside he could swear a python was constricting every joint and muscle. 

Pitch said nothing, nor did anything at first. He simply stared at Jack, as if observing him. They were so close, a couple feet separating them. Or perhaps distance did not matter here. Perhaps Pitch was miles away, or maybe even Jack was miles away. Jack knew nothing here; this voice exploited just what he knew of the world and its people. It was nothingness incarnated. 

And yet, Pitch was here with him, mute, motionless, with Jack equally as bound yet free. 

The silence of this void would have been deafening. But Jack was not even sure if he was already deaf or not. This silence was different than what he had experienced. Silence may entail no sound, but there was always a constant, low buzz in his ears, a low hum, or perhaps a ringing one does not even truly pay much attention to. But there was none of this here. Here, it was truly, utterly, deathly, and completely _silent._

He blinked again – nothing had changed. But Pitch moved then, his right hand coming up into Jack’s line of vision. And in his hand, he held what to Jack appeared to be an apple. 

The frost sprite did not know why, or how, but he reached up and took the offered fruit, his and Pitch’s fingers brushing ever so slightly. His hands were cold, he noted. But how could he tell they were cold? Jack himself was cold; he embodied ice and chill. 

His mind swimming away into the darkness like a startled fish, Jack looked down at the apple in his hands. It didn’t seem all that significant. It was just a simple, dark red apple, fitting perfectly in the palm of his hand. And yet, it radiated something into the frost sprite’s hand, twining up his arm and shooting into his heart. Heat, warmth, a strange, dark sultry energy he could not place. But this sensation was familiar, like the sight of a friend you had not seen in years. It felt like _home._

Jack did not even think what to do next. His body made the decision for him. Completely without control over his own actions, his body raised the apple to his lips, and he bit into it with a deafening crunch.

The flavor of the apple nearly surpassed anything Jack had ever experienced or felt. And he suddenly found himself choking on what he could only name to be _the truth._

Soundlessly gasping and choking, he hunched over and held his throat with one hand, wide eyes turning to look at the rest of the apple. He would have gasped if he could, this strange, foreign, _painful_ thing lodged in his throat.

The red color seemed to flake away like colored dust from the apple’s skin, revealing a shiny obsidian skin underneath. And within the bite he took, the pale, off-white flesh changed. Gone was the glistening meat of the apple’s center, and revealed to him was another essence within it.

Nightmare sand greeted him where the inside of an apple should, specks of it falling from the bite mark like weathered sandstone. 

Heart stuttering, his mouth spilling with the same iridescent black sand, Jack fell to his knees and shakily looked up at Pitch, his eyes watering as his breath was stolen from him. Suffocating in sand, drowning in a desert. 

But he was greeted by an entirely new sight.

This place, where I, nor me, existed, it suddenly gave him a mirror. Or perhaps a copy, a clone. Or maybe even his inner self.

He stared up at his double, glacial eyes wide and disbelieving. The other Jack said nothing, but glared down at Jack in disapproval, and perhaps with a trace of disgust. The double clutched its staff like a child would hold a broken toy, the grip tight yet almost dubious. 

“Help.” Jack wanted to scream, to yell, but he choked once more. Not a sound escaped him, and nor did his double move to do anything to help. He – or perhaps it – simply stood by as the floor became covered in black sand. The Nightmare sand piled along Jack’s knees, while it just started to brush against his double’s bare toes. 

He tried to speak again, but could not. And before he could even try again, his double moved.

Arms held at its side, it held the wooden staff in both hands held apart, just a few inches over the width of his hips. It brought the staff up in a horizontal hold just over its head. And Jack could only watch in horror as it brought its knee out, and slammed the staff down over the top of its thigh, snapping it in two. 

Pain. 

Jack made as if to scream, but no sound escaped, even as a noose in his chest tightened and hung his very heart, an unfamiliar scream resonating in his head. He gasped, falling forward onto his hands and knees, his mouth continuing to pour black sand. He shuddered, suddenly feeling afloat, the anchor used to keep his sense of self held tethered to stability now gone. 

Eyes spilling tears of anger, pain, and sheer confusion, he looked up again. And was once more greeted with a new sight.

It was still the same double, but this other Jack was different. His blue hoodie was gone and replaced with a black one, the same whorls of frost slinking along his shoulder and sleeves like glowing white ivy. Nothing else much had changed, except one other thing.

In its hand, the double held not Jack’s old staff, but one blackened like charred wood, its bottom covered in a shot of ice and frost, and its S-shaped top also boasting more frost and glistening ice. 

Pitch’s staff. 

The double smiled easily.

And Jack finally screamed.

 

****

**

~s~S~s~

**

****

 

With a gasp and a great lurch, Jack sat bolt upright in a panic. Hands clutched at his throat, the scream he had released – or so thought he had released – caught in his throat like a mouse in a trap. He gasped, retching and doubling over on all fours as he gagged. He coughed deeply and wetly, spittle flying from his mouth as his throat worked to dislodge the invisible intrusion trying to suffocate the frost sprite. 

But after a moment passed, his body seemed to realize it was only choking itself, and soon released its death grip on his esophagus in a slow, painfully steady loosening of a knot. 

Jack gasped, dragging air into his withering lungs as quick and as hard as he could. He coughed again, eyes watering, his head feeling swollen and congested with rushing blood. Rasping weakly, he collapsed back onto his backside, heavy head pulsing and cradled in his hands like the beating heart of a frightened deer. 

His ears rang for a minute longer before sounds of the outside could greet him. Crickets and a low breeze met his ears, the sounds utterly loud and deafening. Sensation returning, Jack was suddenly able to feel the dirt and grass under his feet, his back propped up by a large tree trunk. 

He swallowed, his tongue dry and coated with grit. He groaned as his eyes peeled back and took in his surroundings. 

He sat within a thicket tucked away in a glade, hidden by the sentinel-like pine trees and foliage. The chirping sound of crickets soon lowered to a much more reasonable level of sound, while the wind no longer sounded like it was shrieking in his very ears. 

“Where…?” he rasped, shaking his head.

He rubbed his eyes, frantically scrambling to right the mess of his brain and thoughts. And with a startling clarity, he suddenly knew where he was.

He was in the forests of New Jersey. Why had he come here? To seek out Disliber. Why on earth would he do that? Because better to have it done and out of the way as quick as possible than to continue dreading the moment he would have to face the Devil. 

He suddenly tensed, looking skywards. But he no sooner sighed, relieved, seeing no Moon hanging above him like a sinister mobile. Clouds had gathered, casting the forest in an eerie shade. A few dim stars peered out from between the clouds, but were quick to be covered by more overcast.

Blinking slowly, Jack took in a deep breath and released it, willing his heart to calm down and to stop trying to beat itself out of his chest. 

His head throbbed, and he groaned.

“God, what the hell was that…?” he rasped.

That dream…it had been _terrible_. There was simply no other way of describing it. Confusion and disorientation dominated Jack, pressing down on his very brain like pressurized blood in his skull. And yet, already it was fading from his mind, draining from his consciousness like water down a drain. He could recall almost nothing of the dream; only that it had been terrifying, that Pitch had been in it, and Jack had been in it too…

Rubbing his forehead with a groan, Jack fell back against the tree trunk with a weary sigh. 

“Fantastic…” he muttered.

A loud hoot above Jack was heard, and he looked up into the tree above him. A pair of small screech owls sat perched on the lowest branch above Jack, their eyes wide and reflecting light back at the frost sprite. Jack blinked, the owls cocking their heads to either side curiously at the sprite. Jack suddenly frowned at them.

“Suppose you don’t know where Disliber is, do you?” he asked halfheartedly. 

One of the owls hooted, the other giving a low screech. Jack quirked a brow.

“I’m talking to two birds…” he muttered, lowering his head to look straight ahead, “God the universe is imploding…”

Scowling to himself, he looked back up. But the owls were gone, the branches empty and gently swaying in the cool breeze. 

Jack sighed, raking a hand through his hair. He looked to his side, where his bag still hung from his shoulder and sat at his hip. Frowning, he pulled it onto his lap and opened it, checking the items inside.

Everything still seemed to be there with him. The bag was now extremely dark – likely an effect from the staff – and he had to rely on groping around inside of it to make sure all was there. He felt his extra clothing and pushed them aside. His fingers grazed a few small items; the key to Pitch’s lair, his knife, journal and pencil, the top of the staff, and something cold and round…

He pulled out the frozen marble of Nightmare sand, staring at it dubiously. He scrutinized the glistening, iridescent orb, turning it this way and that in his hand. 

_‘Is it because of this?’_ he wondered, _‘Does having this thing mean it’s going to give me nightmares?’_

No answer was forthcoming, much to Jack’s chagrin. But he only shook his head and tossed the ball back in his bag. Closing it up, he stood on shaky legs and looked to where he had propped his staff up against the tree to his left.

He stared at it, suddenly feeling a wash of apprehension come over him. A cold sensation gripped his heart, so different from the cold of winter, snow, and ice. This cold felt different; otherworldly. Like the chilling, mind-numbing freeze of space, the very frozen tundra of the Moon itself…

Jack shuddered, suddenly wishing to be as far away from the staff as possible. But then he scolded himself, confusion settling over him. What was he talking about? He had had his staff ever since he had been reborn, and for a short time as a human boy. He didn’t know why, but he knew it was a part of him, something precious, a gift from the Moon itself. It channeled his power; without it, he was helpless, powerless*, _trapped._

_‘You are only as trapped as you let yourself be.’_

Jack startled at the voice. “Wow. Haven’t heard from you in a while…”

No answer was made, but Jack paid it no mind. Instead, he pushed his strange thoughts aside and reached out to pick up his staff.

His fingers and palm curled around the twisted wood, a familiar chill seeping into his bones. But something else along with the familiar integration of energy came with it, planting itself like a seed in his gut. Muscles clenching, apprehension and doubt pooled in his stomach, seeping into his blood and coating his bones and organs like tar. 

Jack looked at his staff uncertainly, its weight somehow too heavy. It felt different, not like a simple staff that helped him channel his powers. It felt too heavy, too strained and unnaturally cold. It felt like he was carrying a length of chains…

He shook his head again, holding his staff loosely at his side. There was nothing wrong with his staff, it could not be tampered with as far as he knew. But then again, he evidently knew next to nothing about his own world. What was to say something did happen and he was only now walking into a trap?

Jack was about to completely disregard going to see Disliber – it wasn’t worth this headache – but he stopped from leaping into the air at a sound.

A cry.

A baby’s cry. 

“What the…?” Heart leaping into his throat, Jack shot into the air and above the tree line.

Frantic, he looked in every direction, trying to pick up just where the crying was coming from. His mind raced; what on earth was a baby doing this far in the woods? Jack knew for certain he was at least ten miles from any town or civilization, so how would a baby get here?

His ears perked as he finally pinpointed the crying, just a small distance away from him towards the north-west. The wind, seeming to sense Jack’s desperation, pushed the sprite at a breakneck speed towards the crying, the tops of trees parting and thrashing from the powerful gust. 

Dodging treetops, and even a few startled birds, the crying grew louder and closer. Jack’s heart raced, his sole purpose now on finding the child and getting it to safety. But a part of him warned him, that the baby might not even be able to see him*, he might not be able to touch it or take it to safety. He might possibly have to sit and watch or leave the child to die…

Jaw clenched, Jack sped up until he was right over the sounds of crying. Diving through the thick trees, he pushed away branches and leaves as a clearing came into focus. 

And in the middle of it, covered in bruises and lying face down in the dirt, was a woman.

Jack gasped, landing a few feet from the woman, staff clutched tightly in his hands. Leaves and other forest debris covered the woman’s body, her form bruised and battered, her clothes torn and hair matted. Jack shuffled closer to her, peering down at her motionless, cold body.

And somehow he knew, that this woman was dead. 

The crying started up again, and Jack startled, realizing it was coming from the woman. 

_‘Wait, no, not from her…’_ Jack rushed around the woman’s other side and gasped.

A heavily swaddled, squirming bundle was clutched in the dead woman’s other arm, tucked just against her shoulder and slightly hidden by her emaciated bicep. Jack got on his knees and kneeled by the woman’s side, hands outstretched.

“Please see me, please see me…” he chanted, desperate and frantic. 

His hands touched the thick blankets around the squirming baby, and he nearly cursed in joy as his hands were able to grasp it and gently pull it out from under what Jack could only assume was its mother. The baby continued to cry, but its volume lessened somewhat as Jack picked it up.

“Shh, it’s okay…” he tried to reassure, gently settling the baby on his lap. Seeing the face was covered, Jack reached out to uncover it so the baby could see him and get some air, “It’s okay kiddo, nothing’s going to-”

Eyes wide and hands trembling, Jack reeled back at the sight of the baby. Or if it could be called such a thing.

The child was heavily deformed in every way noticeable. Its skin was red and browned in some places, peeling and chipping like fish scales. Its left arm was withered and discolored, shrunken and gnarled like a twisted tree limb. And its face…it looked like it had had a stroke perhaps, one half of its face limp and sagging. 

And whether from fear or utter shock at the sight, Jack shoved the baby from his lap with a shout and scrambled back until his back hit a tree, chest heaving with frantic breath. Somewhere in his addled brain, he could swear he heard a wolf howling as he watched the baby, its crying becoming louder and more distressed. 

“Rejected by a Guardian…”

Jack gasped, yelping and shoving away from the tree at the gruff, putrid words growled into his ear. He turned, scrambling to his feet, staff at the ready as he faced his speaker. He swallowed thickly, hands shaking as he stared at the Jersey Devil. 

“I suppose I should not be surprised…” Disliber rumbled, claws digging into the large tree, where he crawled down like a spider down a wall. 

Jack made as if to reply, but froze at a sound. Growling, low snarling and rasped barking. A chill climbed up his spine with sickening speed. Eyes the color of blood peered out from bushes, foliage, and from behind trees, completely surrounding the clearing. Disliber crawled onto the forest floor with a rasp of gnarled claws on dirt, wet nostrils flaring.

“What do you find more sickening, Guardian?” he asked in a deep, guttural rumble, “The murder of the mother, or the baby itself?”

Jack felt himself fall mute, unable to answer the hulking beast out of sheer terror. Around him, the many owners of the devilish eyes snarled and growled. Two pairs of these eyes that had been peering behind the tree Disliber had climbed down soon stepped forward; wolves*.

Or so Jack was assuming they were wolves. Jack had seen wolves before, even befriended a few. But these, these emaciated, mange-infested beasts only resembled wolves in teeth and snarl. One of them was practically hairless, sores, welts, and boils dotting its body. One of its eyes was badly scarred, the once red iris now a foggy white. Its companion had a little more hair, but was still just as diseased as its brother. Half of one of its ears was missing, and its jaw hung crookedly, like it was broken. Pale yellow foam lined its decaying mouth, its teeth mostly missing, leaving its maw with but a few fangs and blackened gums. 

Disliber huffed, a cloud of cold air leaving his nostrils as he lumbered on all fours around Jack in a wide arch. The frost sprite held up his staff in an offensive position, but Disliber paid him no mind. His horse-like ears pinned back, and he sniffed in the direction of the wailing infant.

“It is worse than the Dark Ages,” he growled, “Thanks to your ilk’s foolishness, even newborns have no chance at life.”

Now on the dead woman’s other side, he lumbered to the fallen human and the distressed baby. Jack hissed, rooted to the spot as the Devil loomed over the deformed baby. A part of him wanted to move, to get the child away from the vicious beast. But something was stopping him; he did not know what, nor could he understand just why, but he somehow knew he could not interfere.

Disliber sniffed the child, nudging his snout against its forehead. The child was suddenly calm, its tears dried and its cries quieted. Cooing, the child patted wiggling hands over the Devil’s wet nose. 

The Devil huffed again, blowing hot air onto the child. He then reached forward with gnarled hands, scooping the child up into his massive claws.

“Fifty years ago, such a child was an oddity, but nothing worth killing,” he said, seemingly more talking to himself than Jack, “But now, such children are the result of unnatural mutations, radiation and experimentation gone to hell. Such children are useless, as are their parents…”

He sniffed at the dead woman, teeth bared.

“Better to destroy the soil from which the seed came, than to risk another mistake,” Disliber said, “Such a waste…”

Jack made as if to speak, to say something, anything. Why would anyone put a tiny, helpless infant in such danger? And for the parent to allow it? It was unthinkable, unless the woman was taken by force or exposed to something that caused her child’s deformity…

The wolves snarled and snapped at Jack, all stepping another inch closer to the sprite. Jack gasped as one made a feigned rush at him, before stopping and backing up again, its eyes never leaving his. Disliber growled.

“Be careful of what you say, child,” he hissed, “My pets would be all too happy to tear your throat out for my King’s sake.”

He shifted the baby to one hand, before gesturing with his now free hand. A wolf rushed forward, tail wagging and teeth clicking. The Devil made sure the baby was tightly wrapped up in its thin blankets, before pulling a length of it from either side to form a sling. He held the crooning baby dangling in front of the wolf.

Jack gasped, making to rush forward. “No, STOP-!”

“Silence.” Disliber snapped his maw at Jack, silencing the sprite.

The wolf sniffed the child briefly, before looking up at its master.

“Take it home,” Disliber said.

The wolf gave a raspy bark, before closing its mouth over the pulled blanket in its mouth and gently taking it from Disliber’s hold. The baby now dangling from its mouth, it turned to its companions and gave a muffled bark. And before Jack could say or do anything, the wolf and the many others rushed off into the woods, vanishing like vapor into the night. 

Jack gritted his teeth, hands trembling. “Where did you take it? What are you going to do with-”

The Devil suddenly turned to Jack so swiftly, the sprite heard his neck cracking and popping from the swift motion. Claws digging into the dirt, Disliber approached Jack like a menacing beast, teeth bared and wings twitching. Jack backed himself up into a tree, staff held before him, but the Devil still moved, not the least bit intimated by the ice spirit.

Now nose to nose, the Devil’s putrid scent of decay filling his nose and churning his gut, Jack could do little more than stare into the beast’s red eyes as he spoke.

“Hand it over.”

Jack paused at the Devil’s words, brows creasing in confusion. 

“What? I don’t understand. What do you-AUGH!” Jack cried out and sidestepped the Devil, clutching his side.

Disliber turned to face Jack, a large swatch of his blue hoodie snared in his right hand’s claws. The Devil clutched at the fabric, lumbering towards Jack once more.

“Quit playing games, boy,” he growled, “The staff, it gives off an energy we dark spirits know. And I can sense it on you…”

Jack panted, hand clutched at his cut side. But his brain soon caught up with Disliber’s words. The staff…Pitch’s staff. He could sense it on Jack. Suddenly knowing he was carrying something that was obviously very precious to this beast’s king was by far the absolute worst thing he could be doing.

Disliber continued, creeping towards Jack like a rabid wolf stalking a cornered rabbit.

“Halistair was entrusted with it after his master’s death. And you…” Disliber snarled nastily, “He and you may have once been close, but you have lost every and all privileges of his friendship.”

“No! Wait, I didn’t steal it! I didn’t even know Pitch had a staff until-”

Jack cut off, yelping as he just barely avoided another swipe of blackened claws – this time to his face. One hand clutched at his bag, the other pointing his staff at the Devil. But no matter what he told himself, he could not bring himself to attack Disliber. Not when the Devil was only trying to defend and reclaim what was meant to be guarded and cherished. 

“Hal gave it to me! He said I had to go to you and some other spirit for something!” he explained.

Disliber only growled, advancing on Jack, the little bit of fur on his back bristling like an angry cat’s. Snarling, he leaped forward, pinning Jack to a tree with one massing hand on his chest, pressing hard enough to bend bone and constrict lungs. 

“Halistair is many things, but foolish he is not,” he hisses, “Why would he give something so precious to a childish, thoughtless Guardian?”

He growled and swatted Jack’s staff away as he raised it up to attack. Defenseless, Disliber crowded Jack into the tree, wings flared and tail thrashing. 

“Give it back _now_ ,” he said, “And I _might_ consider sending you back to the Guardians in one piece.”

“I didn’t steal it…!” Jack rasped, hands gripping the Devil’s thick wrist, “I swear! Ask Hal yourself! He gave it to me! He said I had to find you and get some other things from you and another spirit named Sorrows!”

Disliber blinked, eyes narrowing. He rumbled deeply, before leaning into Jack more. Jack gasped and cringed as the Devil began to sniff at him, his cold, wet snout brushing against his forehead, hair, face, and neck. He sniffed at Jack’s temple, growling lowly.

Both suddenly paused at a shrill cry from above. They lifted their heads, one with trembling hands and the other with narrowed eyes. 

The owl above them stared at Disliber and Jack – or perhaps just one of them. It cocked its head, giving another low screech. Disliber growled, and the owl answered with a flap of its wings and a low whistle. 

Silence passed between them, but somewhere in Jack’s mind, he could hear something. One could easily mistake it for his own pulse, frightened as he was of the Devil. But listening closely, he could tell it was not his own heart throbbing in his head. Voices, two of them. He could not tell what they were saying, for they were muffled and distorted, like he was listening to someone speak behind a thick wall. 

He frowned. He can tell one voice is Disliber’s, as it is deep and just as guttural as it is now. But the other…it was a woman. It sounded familiar…

The owl suddenly gave one final screech, spreading its wings and flying off. Disliber rumbled deeply within his chest, his grip loosening on Jack’s chest. He finally released the sprite, not looking at him. Rather, he seemed transfixed on the branch where the owl had been perched. 

“Count your lucky stars,” he said, wings folding against his back, “I believe you, but I do not trust you.”

Huffing, he fell back onto all fours and turned, lumbering into the forest. Jack was left standing there, stunned, before something seemed to push him from the tree and after Disliber.

“Wait!” he rasped, voice choked, “I-I don’t understand! Hal said I needed to get something from you! What does that even mean?!”

Disliber said nothing, rather he continued at a leisurely pace to an unknown destination. Jack groaned, looking to the clearing where the dead woman lay, and back at Disliber’s retreating back.

“Wait!” he called, this time relieved as the Devil stopped, “What…what about the mom? We can’t just leave her here…”

Disliber said nothing at first, one ear flickering and tail whipping. 

“My pets will take care of her,” he said simply.

Jack swallowed, suddenly nauseous. Coming from Disliber, his words could mean a number of things. But just hearing the tone of his voice, and the long, eerie howl of a distant wolf, he could only guess the woman’s body would be gone before sunrise. Nothing would be left; perhaps a bit of blood and clothing, but nothing else. 

Wolves had ferocious appetites after all. 

Jaw tightening, he sighed. A hand came up to feel at his wound – three long slash marks marring the side of his waist, but they were already starting to heal, the blood no longer flowing. 

_‘Follow him,’_ the voice said.

Jack looked up, taking in the still, statuesque Devil. The voice repeated itself in his head, as if it were urgent. Fear gripped his heart, and yet, just as quickly, it loosened and fell back into his stomach. He nodded to Disliber, and the Devil continued on with winter on his heels. 

Collecting his staff, he followed Disliber for what had to have been a half hour, neither making the effort to speak to one another. It was probably best if they did not speak to each other in the long run. And yet Jack had so many questions. What did you do with the baby? Is it going to be okay? Were there other children out in these woods, deformed and abandoned like this one?

“What do you do?”

Jack gasped, hand flying to his mouth as he and Disliber stopped once more. The question had come out of nowhere, as if by a sudden urge or instinct. That question, one he was only just learning to ask at Patrick’s urging. 

Disliber turned to look at Jack, eyes narrowed, as if insulted. Jack swallowed, before mindlessly elaborating. 

“I-I mean…what do you…do? As a spirit,” he said uncertainly, biting his lip, “Time…he said you’re the Spirit of Deformed Birth…what does that mean…?”

Grumbling, Disliber turned to fully face Jack, crouched on his haunches. 

“You are asking what my purpose is…” he said; it was not a question.

Jack nodded, uneasy.

Disliber made a strange, groaning sound. Huffing, he turned once more and began his trek, speaking as Jack caught up with him.

“Do you know the tale of how I, the Jersey Devil, was born?” he asked.

Jack swallowed. “Um…sort of. I…came here a few times when I was a younger spirit, and I’d hear stories of how you were born, but…are they even true?”

“Depends,” Disliber said, slinking over a fallen log, “What have you heard?”

“Um…you had a mom and twelve siblings. She was pregnant with you and…one day said, ‘let this one be the devil’, and when you were born, you were…well, a Devil,” Jack said.

Disliber nodded. “That is only one side of the story.”

Tail flicking, he began his tale.

“Many years ago, a man and woman lived in a cottage in these woods. They had twelve children, and the woman was soon expecting their thirteenth. One day, in a fit of exasperation and anger, she cried, ‘let this one be born as the Devil’. Her child, innocent, naïve, heard his mother inside her womb. And her curse changed him. The pain of change is a horrid thing, and he suffered as he was changed into a monster.

“And on a night like this, on the full Moon, the woman gave birth. It was agonizing, the monstrous child harming her beyond repair. His claws scratched her raw, his horns jabbed her insides, and his hooves kicked her so hard her heart would stutter.”

Jack watched the Devil with wide, almost disbelieving eyes. So part of the legend was true. His mother had, in a way, cursed her thirteenth son. 

Disliber continued.

“When he was born, his mother was revolted, his father about to kill him. Angered and frightened, he killed his family – his mother, father, and siblings – and burned down the house, flying away through the chimney.”

Disliber looked skyward suddenly, ears pinning back.

“He heard the Moon give a startled gasp as he ran into its light. At first, he is hopeful. But the Moon scorned him, flickering in revulsion when the devil tried pleading to it for help. It would do not but forsake him, and he wandered the woods alone and frightened, without a family or companion. And each night, he would cry and cry, hoping someone would hear him and take him away from these lonesome woods.”

Jack was stunned. The Moon had forsaken a child? Because of the way he looked? 

“None came. And those who did shunned him and fled in terror. But one night, on a new moon…Pitch Black came and took him in with warm, welcome arms.”

Disliber paused in his trek, head lowered. “‘What a lovey child you are,’ he had said…and when the little Devil looked up at him, felt his arms around him, he cried and swore his very heart and soul to him*. For he knew this man was to be his father, his protector, his king, his God.’’

“And that was how I was born,” Disliber said, turning to look at Jack through hooded red eyes.

“From the moment I was born, I could hear the cries from children all over the world. I did not understand it at first, and I was frightened. But my King taught me how to listen to those cries, how to find them and hush them. He told me why I heard those cries; because I was a spirit that took in the damned and deformed shunned by the world. I take in the cursed, and may even steal them and bring them to families who would wholeheartedly accept them, no matter their appearance.

_"You are an angel with a devil's mask."_

The Devil’s eyes burned. “As I grew, he would tell me every day how beautiful I was. He taught me how to use the shadows, how to sing lullabies to distraught and abandoned children, and how to find the best homes for them, or if death is the only mercy I can give.”

He suddenly looked downwards into a gully to his left, and Jack followed his gaze. 

Just at the bottom of the large dip in the earth, was a weathered and rotting house. Rotted and beaten by Time and Nature’s hands, the two story house was blackened and wrecked, most of its roof missing. The walls, stony and charred, were covered in ivy vines and overgrown foliage. 

It looked as if there used to be a garden behind it, but it was overrun with weeds and thorny bushes. Blackberry briars dominated the backyard, many of them creeping up the back of the house. Moss covered what little bit of the house was still showing, yet despite its degeneration, smoke floated up from the blackened chimney. 

Jack startled as Disliber suddenly moved, lumbering down the steep hill and towards the little cottage. At first uncertain, Jack followed as well, riding a soft current of wind down to the bottom. Disliber continued on, pushing the rickety front door open and stomping in. 

Jack approached the cottage cautiously, peering inside the door. The inside was just as decimated as the outside, if not worse. Everything was charred and covered in a layer of dust, some mold, and moss. The would be fire in the fireplace was actually a pile of embers now, just started to choke on its own smoke and sputter up into the chimney. 

He could see a staircase leading upwards, but it did not look at all safe to use. He wondered if Disliber flew up, or since his wings were so big, maybe he flew to the second story outside and went in through a window…

A cough caught his attention, and he turned towards the living area. A worn and chipped wooden cradle lay in the corner, draped with old blankets and torn cut offs of fabric. Disliber loomed over it, one clawed hand griping its edge.

Cautiously, Jack stepped inside, wincing at the loud creak the floor gave. Looking around, he could tell this was the same cottage Disliber had been born in. It was ancient, yet still standing. As wrecked and deformed as its owner. It stank of animal carcasses and mold, yet there was a faintly earthy smell he could not place. 

“This child will not live,” Disliber suddenly said, startling Jack.

“Wh…what?” he asked, “What do you mean?”

Disliber huffed. “The deformities are not limited to his outer appearance. Many of his blood vessels are tangled and interwoven, weak and hemorrhaging…*”

He lifted his claws from the cradle, and Jack gasped at the blood on his fore-claw. Another cough was heard, shrill and wet, gurgling like someone was drowning. Jack moved forward, but could not bring himself to look into the cradle. Instead he stood slightly behind and to Disliber’s side.

“Can’t you do something?” he asked, staring at the cradle, “I mean, you’re the Spirit of Deformed Birth, can’t you fix-”

“No,” Disliber grunted, looking over at Jack, “I determine whether children like him should be given to a new home, killed as a mercy, or assign to them another fate where there may have a second chance.”

“Then give it that chance!” Jack snapped, pointing to the cradle, “If you can somehow save him, then do it!”

Disliber blinked slowly, before shaking his head. He sighed.

“Such childish whimsy…” he said, “You think I have the power to change a child? To fix what is broken, to mend what the world sees as wrong? You think he needs to be _fixed?_ ”

Jack winced, turning away. Disliber grumbled.

“You do not even know what I speak of when I say he can have a second chance,” he said, turning back to the child, “But perhaps a demonstration is in order.”

Disliber leaned over the cradle, reaching out the broken window above it. With a rustle of leaves and foliage, he plucked a blackberry* and brought it into the house. Holding it between his thumb and fore-claw, he crushed it, holding it over the cradle. The juices flowed down his finger and, unseen to Jack, into the baby’s mouth. It whimpered, coughing slightly, but then suddenly became silent. 

Disliber licked off the rest of the juices and remains of the blackberry, and then he waited. 

Jack waited as well, not knowing what to expect. He could not see the child, nor hear it. It was quiet as death. And for a moment, he thought the Devil had killed the child. But a beat passed, and a rustling was heard, the cradling shuddering as the child shifted about in it. 

Disliber backed up a bit, giving Jack a full view of the cradle as it shuddered and rocked. A cough was heard again, followed by a low whine and a groan. The blankets shifted, and something – the child – moved to the edge of the cradle. A head poked out of the cradle, and Jack gasped. 

The wolf pup sneezed, its hairless body covered in only a fine, wiry fuzz that did nothing to warm its trembling, emaciated body. Its glowing red eyes blinked owlishly, lifting its snout and sniffing in the direction of Jack and Disliber. It growled at Jack.

“What…” Jack shook his head, disbelieving. “What did you do? What did you do to him?!”

“I showed him my mercy,” Disliber said calmly, reaching out to pet the wolf pup’s head, “Too many have died, and I’d rather not have Death trudging through my home again. His stench infects this house…”

As if to prove his point, a gust of wind flew in through the window, blowing the putrid stench right into Jack’s face. He cringed, holding a sleeve up to his mouth and nose. 

“But…!” he growled, “This isn’t a second chance! You turned him into an animal!”

Disliber growled, showing his teeth. This quieted Jack, and the Devil fixed him a disapproving scowl.

“This little one will grow and be protected here,” he said, “This child will help me save others like him, take them from their abusive homes and either bring them to me, or to a home where they can be safe and loved. If he were to live and grow, he would have no purpose in life, nothing to call his own. Now, he has a purpose.”

Jack is uncertain, but deep down, he somehow knew that this was a mercy to the child. Death would have been a mercy as well, but if what Disliber said was true, then he would need all the help he could get to take children like that one away from people who would only hurt them. Disliber was giving these wolves – these _children_ – the chance he once never had. Had Pitch never found him, what was to say he wouldn’t turn into a real monster? Pitch gave him a job, a purpose that the Devil held close to his shriveled heart. And this duty of his had saved countless children…

Children the Moon and Guardians had forsaken. 

_‘He is more of a Guardian than you or the others will ever be…’_ the voice said. 

Jack felt a stinging jab in his heart, his eyes burning. But it was right. Looking back on his whole three hundred and fifty years of life, Jack never once met a child that was physically deformed or shunned by society. Every child he had ever helped or given a snow day to had been healthy, had many friends to spread his belief to, had homes and families and wonder and hope and dreams and wonderful memories…

And yet, he had never once given a child who truly needed it a smile. 

Disliber sighed, seemingly reading Jack’s very thoughts. He looked through a hole in the roof that reached all the way through the second floor and out into the overcast sky.

“I cannot understand why Lady Seraphina* did not strike the Guardians down the first time they committed such awful deeds…” he said.

Jack looked up, confused. “Seraphina?”

Disliber’s eyes narrowed. “It is no surprise you don’t know who she is, nor recognize her true name.”

“Who is she? A dark spirit?” Jack asked, becoming anxious.

Disliber bristled, startling Jack. “Lady Seraphina is no dark spirit, but we all know and respect her. We know of her long suffering at the Guardian's hands, and of the grief she carries with her every day.”

Jack frowned, confused. He could only assume this Seraphina was a light spirit, or perhaps an element. Whoever she was, he was certain he had never met her.

“For all their nobility, the Guardians are lesser than the lowest shade,” Disliber said, “They knew of her plight, as did the Moon himself, and when she came to Earth, he was still aware of her pain, but did nothing. So she grew, in power, grace, and wrath. Until she was no longer mortal, no longer human, no longer a child.”

“They?” Jack asked. Disliber glared at the far wall, claws clenched at his sides.

“The Moon’s predecessors; the Man in the Moon’s own parents,” he said.

Jack’s heart gave a thunderous throb. Parents…the Man in the Moon had had parents?

_‘What…how? How can I not know this? Why had the Guardians never told me?’_ he thought frantically. 

Disliber only took in the panicked and lost look of the winter sprite, pity falling into his gut. So, the Guardians never even told him of that…

He looked back to the pup, now asleep in the cradle.

“It is easy to ignore something wretched and suffering. It is even easier when that thing suffers from a pain you yourself inflicted,” he said, “You can scream and shout all you like, but the Moon will ignore it if he is involved. It is the way of the Guardians; help the beautiful, shun the ugly. It makes things easier."

Jack wanted to scream, to rave, to _deny_. But when faced with a plain truth in such a bright clarity, one could not simply deny it. It was as Disliber said; he could scream and cry all he wanted, deny all he wanted, but the truth was not going to go away. In a way, the truth was even more frightening than lies. 

“Both she and my King suffer from this great sickness,” Disliber continued, “Solitude is more frightening than darkness…*”

Jack clenched his fists, his staff suddenly feeling too heavy. His head, his heart, his very body, it felt too heavy. It weighed on him completely and utterly, this force of anger, guilt, and fear. 

Pitch’s sleeping face flashed in his mind, causing him to gasp and double over, clutching his heart. 

His heart; it _hurt…_

“…what do I do?” he rasped suddenly, catching Disliber’s attention, “Tell me what to do. What do I do?! What can save him? What can…not fix, but at least make this somewhat better? What can I do?!”

Disliber sighed. “You alone cannot save this world or my King…”

“I don’t care!” Jack snapped, “Damn it, I…! Disliber, _please_. I screwed up; the Guardians and I screwed up _bad._ I know that now, but…please. Just _help_ me.”

“And what makes you think you can help anyone?” the Devil asked.

Jack gritted his teeth, clutching his heart painfully. “Because I know I can. I don’t know what it is, but something…something inside of me knows I can. It hurts, it hurts so much, but…I know I can fix it…!”

Jack suddenly lurched, collapsing to his knees before the Devil and clutching at his chest, doubled over and holding back tears. Oh gods above, it _hurt._ It hurt like nothing Jack had ever felt before. Not even his three hundred years of loneliness compared to this. 

“It hurts, it hurts…!” he sobbed.

The click of hooves did not even register in his mind, nor the creak of the wood floor as the Devil kneeled in front of him. A clawed, gnarled hand came up and grasped his chin, forcibly lifting it up to look the Devil in his beady red eyes. 

“You can feel it?” Disliber asked, disbelief coating his voice.

“Feel…what?” Jack rasped, trying to staunch the tears.

Disliber blinked once, small eyes wide. His grip on Jack’s chin tightened ever so slightly, his other hand coming up to cup the frost sprite’s cheek. 

“You feel it?” he asked again, “The pain of this world’s suffering. The suffering of our brothers and sisters? Of every spirit in this world crying and hurting. Your heart, it hurts with them?”

Jack blinked, dumbfounded. But with a sudden jolt of clarity, he nodded, his own disbelief painting his features. He nodded again when Disliber leaned closer, large chest heaving in rapid, sharp breaths. 

“Jack,” he said.

Jack startled at the softness of the Devil’s voice, suddenly lulled and entranced by it. In a strange sort of realization, he felt like he was a young boy looking up at his big brother. 

And it felt _right._

Disliber huffed at Jack, but his breath was not putrid or rotting. It was something else entirely. Something he could only describe as _darkness._

“You are transforming,” Disliber said, “Into something beautiful.”

He suddenly released Jack, lumbering over to the fireplace. He quickly and without ceremony dug through the ashes, throwing soot and ash and burnt wood onto the floor. Huffing through the cloud of soot, he finally seemed to find what he was looking for and moved back over to Jack. He held his large hands out.

“Go to our home. Find Sorrows. She will know what to do next,” he said.

Jack looked down at his hands, blinking once. 

The stone was flat, simple and black. Yet it shone like polished obsidian, cut in the shape of a jagged coffin. Slowly, he reached forward and took the small slab of stone from the Devil’s hands. It was barely half the length of his own hand, smooth and shining like it had never been buried in ashes. It was _warm_ , not with the warmth of the dying fire, but of something else.

This warmth was Pitch’s warmth. 

“Go.” Jack looked up at Disliber, eyes wide. The Devil gripped his shoulders firmly, yet not painfully. 

“Time is running out, and if you believe you can save our King…” A pause. “Then I believe in you.”

I believe in you…I believe in you… _I believe in you…_

“Thank you…” Was all Jack could rasp.

And before he could say or do anything else, he turned and flew out the door with the stone. Disliber watched the sprite with his eyes from the window beside the door, watching as he took off into the sky and raced for the east; for the Black Sea. 

Releasing a deep breath, the Devil looked to the wolf pup in its cradle. Awash with a dreamless sleep, the child would no longer suffer, but rather relieve the suffering of others like him.

Huh, it was funny…

Jack was doing the same for the dark spirits. 

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes.
> 
> 1.) This is more speculation on my part. In the movie, Jack seemed pretty helpless and without his control over wind or ice the couple times he lost his staff. One instance was when he was hit by a Nightmare in the sky, and his staff was knocked out of his hands, and he fell before being caught. The second is a familiar instance, when Pitch got hold of the staff and broke it. Although he was down in the dumps, if he were still capable of using his powers, I'd imagine he would get out of the crag and go to warn the others or something. But he didn't. So in theory, Jack cannot use his powers, or fly, without his staff. But again, this is only canon speculation. For this story though, Jack is powerless without his staff.
> 
> 2.) Another uncertain speculation. With how things are explained, it's a bit uncertain if you are born with the ability to see the Guardians, or you grow into your belief over time. I'm honestly a bit on the fence with this theory, but I can certainly agree that it usually depends on the child itself. Some babies are just naturally born with the ability to see certain spirits, others need to grow into it. It's a game of chance in this regard. 
> 
> 3.) Please note that I am well aware that there are no wolves in the wild of New Jersey...but no one ever said anything about diseased, monstrous, demon wolves. 83
> 
> 4.) To clarify, not ALL dark spirits are born of Pitch's direct influence. Spirits of the darker nature can be welcomed and 'adopted' by him, so long as they have the right qualifications. However, it is not unheard of for, say, a light spirit to be converted into a dark spirit. This process can only be done if the spirit in question is willing, otherwise the conversion can rebound and decimate them either into oblivion, or into a mindless beat with no alliance to the light or dark half of the world. In this case though, Disliber was born of a darker element, and so therefore has every qualification need to be taken under Pitch's reign. He COULD have been taken in by the Moon, and therefore the Guardians, but with Manny's rejection, that door closed very quickly. 
> 
> 5.) Often an outer deformity is a sign of greater internal deformity. A clef lip may just seem like a small cosmetic hiccup, but in reality, it could be a sign of much deeper, internal malformations. Many people have died from the deformities inside their bodies that come along with their outer formations. In most cases, these deaths have to do with the blood vessels inside the body, or if the outer deformity is close to a vital organ. Tumors and cysts also come along with outer deformities, and may be attached to and feed off of vital organs like the heart or lungs. 
> 
> 6.) Did you know? In the story of when Lucifer (aka Samael) was cast out of heaven, he is said to have landed in a blackberry bramble. This part of the story has instigated many superstitions for the plant and the fruit it bears. It is sometimes known as an evil fruit, as it has been said to have been tainted by the Devil's touch, ergo their dark color. In some serious religious superstition, eating blackberries on Sunday and/or Easter (the day of Christ) is a grave sin, and is punishable in various ways. 
> 
> 7.) 'Seraphina' as it turns out is the fan-given name for Mother Nature. Her real name is actually Emily Jane, as stated in the fourth book of the series. I like Seraphina too much though, and kind of 'grew up' with it in the fandom, so that will be used as Nature's given name when needed.
> 
> 8.) A quote from the anime, 'Rozen Maiden', and one of the lyrics in the first season's opening theme.
> 
> ~S~


	19. Night Owl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has no footnotes! D8
> 
> ~S~

They say silence is deafening, that the complete silence of a soundless room could drive one to madness faster than the maddening chant of a devilish incantation. But perhaps it was not the silence that was making the Guardians squirm, but the increasingly violent storm of their collective thoughts. Swirling like numerous hurricanes in their heads, crashing and roiling madly, the silence permitted these little storms to be heard, quieting all outside noise that could drown them out, and therefore spare the Guardians from the destructive whirlwind of their very thoughts.

The Globe Room, cloaked in an eerie hush, hosted the Guardians in a tight circle in the sitting area. Every now and again, they would look up towards the Globe, but would no sooner look away as more and more lights flickered out. It was painful, seeing their very livelihoods being snuffed out like little candles on a child’s birthday cake. Their very belief – their very _existence_ – being so easily taken out without a second thought.

It was a cruel, yet ironic thing. Children were so forgetful, yet they remember so much. And yet, at any moment in their lives, something could catch their attention, and before they knew it, they could forget just about anything. 

They were oddly reminded of Jamie, of how he stood up to Pitch. He had claimed to believe in Pitch, but that he was not afraid of him. And yet, mere minutes later, Jamie had run right through Pitch, his entire being taken up by the joy and fun and play of Jack and the Guardians’ almost effortless comeback. 

It never seemed to occur to the Guardians until just then; but children were, by nature, either very forgetful creatures, or just liars. Perhaps both.

Their nerves were raw and buzzing in anxiety and apprehension. None dared to move or speak, let alone even look at the listening device that sat on the coffee table between them all, now turned off. 

Honestly, they were scolding themselves for being so stunned that Time had found their bug. He was _Father Time_ , he knew _everything_ that ever is, was, shall or should be. And expecting him to miss a tiny detail like a bug in Pitch’s room was not so much a mistake, as it was a very large insult to the temporal man. 

They counted themselves lucky that Time seemed more amused than angry at them. Yet it was demeaning; like a parent humoring a child trying to spy on them during a serious conversation. Ironically, the analogy fit. It did not stop them from feeling such deep apprehension though, from tossing expecting looks to the doors that surrounded them, as if Time himself would barge right through them and punish them for spying.

No such thing happened, but it didn’t stop them from watching and waiting. 

But finally, after many long, tense moments, the silence is shooed away by a gruff, Aussie accent.

“This is madness…” Bunny rasped, brows bunching.

The other Guardians made as if to protest, but the Pooka beat the other spirits to it. 

“Don’t you dare deny it, you know it’s true,” Bunny snapped, paws clenching and unclenching on his knees, “Time is insane, and Nature’s just enabling him to play his sick games while using frostbite as a chess piece.”

North frowned. “Bunny, you know Nature cannot go against Time, nor he her…” His bushy brows bow slightly in thought. “And besides…Time’s madness is not the same as what we know. His madness has led to much of this world’s sanity.”

Bunny scowled. “Taking the bloke’s side now are you?”

North scowled, but said nothing. Bunny scoffed. 

“This only proves it,” he grumbled, “Proves that frostbite ain’t got any trust in us. It just proves he ain’t one of us.”

“Bunny! That’s enough!” Tooth snapped, startling everyone as she stood. Cheeks red and jaw clenched, the others watched the fairy woman as she clawed at her arms and shook her head.

“You happily agreed to keeping Jack in the dark; we all did!” she said, her voice thick and strained, “It’s our own fault he ran off. It’s our own fault he doesn’t trust us anymore. It’s our own fault we hurt him…and it’s our fault that the world is suffering for our mistakes.”

Bunny scoffed, “Not like you had any protests in the beginning.”

“Because none of us at the time had the guts to say no to Manny!” Tooth snapped, startling the others, “We never _once_ questioned Manny’s motives or orders! We just went along with it because we didn’t know any better, nor did we care enough to want to know any better!”

“It was for frostbite’s own good,” Bunny snarled.

Tooth laughed bitterly, humorless. “For his own _good?_ Keeping secrets, keeping him from ever learning of his own world, his own _home_ , was for _his own good?_ ”

Bunny snarled, but made no reply. Tooth clenched her fists.

“We had _no right_ ,” she hissed, “We had absolutely _no right_ in keeping these things from Jack. And because of all of us – Manny included – he has lost all trust in us and has run off and possibly gone to a dark spirit! And you know what the sad part is? I don’t _blame_ him for leaving us!”

Bunny scowled, crossing his furry arms. “Yeah? You seemed to blame him enough when you assumed he was in league with Pitch in exchange for his memories.”

Tooth flinched, but no sooner scowled red hot fury at the Pooka. Before a brawl could break out, however, Sandy broke between the two spirits. Various signs and symbols formed above him, placating the two other spirits, but not discouraging their stare down from one another. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Bunny growled, “Pitch ain’t anything special. There is no way his absence in this world has caused this much damage.”

“Then why would Fearlings try and lead him off of cliff?” North countered. 

“To escape,” Bunny scoffed. But Sandy shook his head, more images appearing. North nodded.

“Sandy is correct. Pitch cannot form portals in midair, he needs shadows,” he said, “And given his condition, a fall like that may not have killed him, but it would have fatally wounded him. Perhaps permanently.” 

“Oh rack off, North! It makes no sense!” Bunny snapped, “Manny would have told us years ago if something was going wrong, and even now he says nothing! This whole clusterfuck is just a ploy! We haven’t seen nothing! Nothing is happening! There are no wars, no biological warfare, and the world is not falling into an apocalyptic sinkhole!”

The others said nothing, but even still, Bunny could see it in their eyes; doubt. And although he made a good show of feeling otherwise, he was just as doubtful as they were. He knew, deep down, that something was happening, that something evil was coming to their world. There was something just under their feet and high above their heads, watching, waiting to collide in a fatal explosion of terror and death. 

And yet, Manny would have told them if something was wrong, if the world truly was falling to pieces. Manny would have told them a long time ago if there was trouble. He would have told them that people, spirits, and children were dying. But all they had gotten over the last fifty years was silence. 

Bunny clenched his paws, hands shaking. He tried to ignore it, to deny it, but not even he was stubborn enough to ignore the seed of doubt digging its roots into his heart, its poisonous vines twining with his ribs and constricting his lungs. 

Silence once more fell over them all, creeping in like a shy animal. They looked towards the skylight, yet saw no Moon. Clouds the color of the boogeyman’s skin hid whatever lay beyond them, heavy and dark with cold and water. No moonbeams penetrated the hazy cloak, thick as it was, unrelenting as any calm before the storm should be. 

The clouds swirled and churned, as if by a merciless wind. Or perhaps something nastier.

Bunny narrowed his eyes, ears pinning back and nose twitching.

“Duck,” he said.

Before anyone could question the Pooka, the glass dome above them shattered with a great crash. The Guardians cried out, covering their heads and reaching for their weapons. Two thumps were heard as whatever crashed through the domed ceiling landed before them at a distance, followed by guttural snarls, and the distinct sound of beating wings. The glass now settled, the Guardians readied themselves, but not for the sight before them.

The two misshapen wolves snarled at them on the ground, rotted teeth making Tooth shudder, and their putrid smell causing Bunny to wrinkle his nose. And above them, Disliber hovered in place, an ominous entity, as foul and deformed as his mangy wolves. 

The Guardians did not move, too stunned to do so. All the while, Disliber surveyed them with dull interest, narrow red eyes like the glowing cracks of magma veins in a volcanic wall. With a dull thud of hooves, he landed on the floor between his two wolves, torso hunching over in a bumpy arch, long, stump-like neck tapering his form into a gargoyle crouch. 

There was silence once more, but it was soon broken.

“The hell are you doing here, Devil?” Bunny growled boomerangs clutched in his paws. 

Disliber did not reply. But rather, he opened his mouth, and out dropped a damp rag – or what they assumed was a rag. The Guardians looked closer, and no sooner gasped with wide-eyed horror.

The rag was blue, torn and bloodied, tainted with the Devil’s saliva and mouth rot. It was a piece of Jack’s hoodie. 

They were trembling by now, before one of them – Tooth – looked up in unadulterated horror at the Devil, her rapiers trembling in her grip.

“You…you killed…!” the Devil interrupted her with a low, raspy laugh. 

“If I had done such a thing, I would have dropped his bloody and mangled corpse through the skylight…” he rumbled. 

He no sooner moved, startling the Guardians. He lumbered towards the door leading to the room Pitch was being kept in, as well as where Time and Nature themselves were. But before his gnarled hand could touch the doorknob to the hallway, he is stopped by North and Bunny.

“Where is Jack?” North demanded. Disliber huffed, irritated. 

“Alive,” he growled flatly, “Though given the price on his head, likely not for long.”

The Jersey Devil took in the looks of muddled confusion and horror, and elaborated. 

“Despite your current protection, many spirits – my kind and others – are all quite upset with you lot,” he said, “Doubt has been planted in their hearts, their hopes of you saving my King dwindling. As of now, you all are being hunted, and given that Frost has left the sanctity of the Workshop and Nature’s watch…well, let’s just say his journey will be far from pleasant.”

He once more took in the wide-eyed looks and pale faces. He was distinctly pleased, and so shoved past Bunny and North and reached for the door once more. His tailing wolves snarled at the two larger Guardians, keeping them at bay.

“Now, if you will excuse me, I have a message to deliver to Lady Nature and Sir Time…” he rumbled.

But he need not have made for the door, as it opened of its own accord, admitting the spirits of nature and time themselves into their midst. Nature looked over the room, taking in the Guardians with disdain and Disliber and his wolves with curiosity. She shut the door behind herself and the oddly silent, yet serene, Time.

“A message, you say?” she inquired. 

Disliber huffed, bowing his head with a mumbled apology, taking many steps back to give the two powerful spirits space. Time chuckled suddenly.

“By any chance would this message have to do with the coming war?” he inquired.

Disliber’s ratty ears pinned back, flickering briefly. He nodded. 

“Yes,” he said respectfully, “Attempts have been made on my King’s throne, and the tipping point has been reached. We are going to war.”

“What?!” Bunny shrieked, very much looking like the rabbit caught on the train tracks.

“How is this possible?!” North joined in, “There cannot be war!”

“Oh but there is,” Time stated offhandedly, “You see, a recent event has taken place, and with it has come the proclamation of war. It is only fair after all.”

“Fair?!” Bunny snapped, “How is this fair?! What the hell could have happened that would instigate a war?!”

Time looked to Disliber knowingly, and the Devil nodded. Rising up on his haunches, he reached behind himself, unlatching something hanging from a crude leather belt around his hips. The item had been concealed from the Guardians due to his large, leathery wings. But he no sooner brought it out.

The Guardians gasped, sickened and terrified looks distorting their features. For dangling by its snake-like hair, mouth gaping in a soundless scream, and stony eyes widened and rolled back in the throes of terror, was a head. 

Not just any head, but the head of Medusa herself. 

Tooth screamed as the head was thrown at their feet, the blanched olive skin of the head clammy and burnt in a few places. Its serpentine tongue lolled out, dry and limp, onto the floor. 

“You…!” Bunny swallowed, looking sick. “You murderer…!”

“I did not kill the bitch,” Disliber growled, “Though I wish I had for her daring to seat herself upon my King’s throne. Her death was swift; she got lucky.”

"Then who did this?!" Bunny snapped.

"Halistair Owens.”

The Guardians turned to look at Time, stunned beyond belief. The temporal man only smiled, nodding to Disliber.

“I believe you had a message for us?” he inquired.

Disliber nodded, and without giving the Guardians a glance, lumbered over to the dying fire of North’s fireplace. Grumbling, he rifled through the coals, spreading them out. Once they were settled as he wanted, he took in a deep breath, and blew a blast of putrid air from his nostrils, awakening the fire in a blast of angry reds, yellows, and oranges. And from the blaze, arose the shape of Halistair; bloodied, beaten, yet unmarred and determined. He began to speak, his voice distorted and wavering like the dance of flames.

_“Anyone who dares to make an attempt on King Pitch's throne will face the wrath of the Monarch of Monsters,”_ he said, before raising his hand up, showing them all the freshly severed head of Medusa, _“Heed my warning, or your head shall be made into a warning for others…”_

His eyes narrowed dangerously, his wrath nearly palpable. _“Mark my words, this will not be the last life I take. For this atrocity, war shall come, and I pray for those who dare to challenge me. None will be shown mercy but my brothers and sisters. It is time for the dark to rise up and swallow the Moon!”_

_“All hail the Nightmare King!”_

The fire suddenly died, collapsing like a dying animal into the embers, leaving nothing but smoke and soot. 

The Guardians were left gaping at the fireplace, while Nature and Time were as stone-faced as ever. Disliber only huffed, turning to face the Guardians and the two other spirits. 

“Halistair will let no one near the throne, not even his own kind,” he said, “Many heads will roll tonight.”

North made as if to protest, but Nature quickly cut the Russian off.

“This is what happens when a spirit of great power has been toppled from his throne,” she said, “Right now, anyone can claim it, and the dark spirits attached to it. But no one but Pitch will be welcomed to the throne.”

“And considering the bounty on your heads, and the sudden death of a neutral spirit, it seems the fighting will be starting ahead of schedule,” Time added nonchalantly. 

“How can you be so calm about this?!” Bunny rasped in disbelief. Time only quirked a delicate brow.

“I am Time, Bunnymund,” he said, his lips spreading into a dazzling smile, “I _live_ for these games.”

Games…although it had occurred to Bunny – and many others – before, it only seemed to cement itself into his mind at that very moment. Time was cruel, and not the least bit remorseful of others if it did not benefit Father Time himself or the world as a whole. Whether it was the end of all they knew or a new beginning, he would happily sit back and watch and do nothing about it. He would not even express any hint of grief for any lives lost. 

Time was a king in his own right. And he happily appointed the unfortunate world’s humans and spirits as his jesters. And it only seemed to sink into all of their minds now just how cruel he could and would be for a laugh. 

_Time did not care._

Bunny was not even aware of rushing at the temporal man until he was caught in large, tattooed arms. Time did not even flinch, only continued to smile even as Bunny called him every vile name known to spirit and human. Nature scowled at the Pooka.

“Enough,” she hissed, “Save your childish tantrum for later. We have a war to prepare for.” 

“Are you mad?! What’s he going to do?! He doesn’t _care!_ ” Bunny snapped.

Nature scoffed, “And that is not mine or your concern, rabbit.”

It was North who spoke this time. “Nature, please, enough! You must stop this war! This is not a good time for a war!”

“There is never a _good time_ for war, Nicolas,” Nature deadpanned, “But there is nothing I can do. I do not control the dark spirits.”

“But surely Hal cannot instigate war?” North pleaded.

“He can. With Pitch out of commission, Halistair is the next highest ranking spirit in his caste,” Nature explained, “He has the right, and he already took a neutral spirit’s life. It is not a matter of a decision as much as it is a matter of politics.” 

“And besides, young Halistair has staved off those wanting war up until now,” Time added with a shrug, “I can only assume there have been…shifts in the chain of events that prompted him into finally taking drastic measures.” 

“What the absolute _hell_ could have happened to make him change his mind?!” Bunny snapped.

Time hummed thoughtfully, contemplative. It only made the others anxious, because Time never had to think about anything. He knew all there has, is, or was, and the only reason he would take the time to feint contemplation, was because he wanted to build on the tension and for his own sick entertainment. He thrived off of drama it seemed. 

He smiled sweetly. “I can only assume young Frost has had a significant impact on him.”

The vague statement was on the whole not the least bit reassuring. The fact that it gave no indication of any reason, and contributed Jack’s name, only made it worse. Variables of what could have been done to Jack flooded the Guardians’ minds in a dizzying storm.

Time did not even wait for a reply, but only chuckled serenely. 

“It is amazing what a little talk can do for a child” – here his sightless gaze landed on a stunned Sandy – “Did that arrow hurt, Sandman?”

It should be impossible, but somehow, Sandy’s golden complexion seemed to drain into a dull, lusterless yellow. He quaked visibly, hands spastically clenching at his sides, all the while the other Guardians regarded the temporal man with a very prominent sense of horror. 

Time only chuckled, a slender hand coming up to touch the round clock in his breast delicately. His fingers ran over the golden frame carefully, almost seductively. 

“Tick tock, Guardians…” he purred. 

A shudder ran through them all – except one. So preoccupied by the temporal man as they were, they did not notice one of their number was missing, and the window near the lounge was open, clapping quietly against its frame by the strong winds outside. 

 

****

**

~s~S~s~

**

****

 

The town nearest to the Black Sea was, by all accounts, nearly deserted, barren. Jack honestly did not want to find out why exactly the town was deserted, let alone the cause of why it looked as if a dragon had plowed through it. He even less so wanted to find out the cause for ominous dark red stains on the roads, buildings, and vehicles, nor did he wish to find the source of the rotting stench perfuming the air.

He bypassed the town itself, staving off his natural curiosity, and landed just within the forest touching against the beginnings of a flat, sandy beach. He cringed, hand coming up to cover his nose.

The usual scent of sea rot was nearly overpowered by something far filthier. Just beyond the stretch of trees, he could make out the bodies of beached seals, and numerous rotting fish carcasses along the tainted sands. Industrial smells of trash, oil, and pollution mingled with the rotting sea flesh, flies and scavenging birds the only lively presence for miles. 

Jack sighed, biting his lip. Running a hand through his hair, he slid down onto the ground against a tree, legs crossed. 

_‘Okay, I’m here…’_ he thought, _‘Now what?’_

He tugged at the sleeve of his spare hoodie. After leaving Disliber’s domain, he had realized his usual blue hoodie was in need of retirement, the hole in its side gaping and caked with frozen and dried blood. He was thankful he had brought a spare with him, and had soon changed when he landed near the Black Sea. 

The black color against his pale complexion was startling, and the sheen of the frost along his sleeves and collar were eerie. The irony of the color was not at all lost on Jack.

Sighing, he reached into his bag, intending to try and find the odd little pyramid map that had brought him here. But upon finding it, and requesting it show him where to go next, it did nothing more than simply show him the Black Sea itself. 

He growled as the map withdrew. He was obviously not going to get an exact location on just where exactly he needed to go. A simple location could hide numerous doors and portals to a spirit’s realm, and simply knowing of a single area was not going to help you find where exactly a door or portal was. And considering Jack was quite a bit lacking in the knowledge of the spirit realm and what it held…

“Shit…” he groaned, scrubbing at his face. He should have asked Hal for more details. He _should_ have demanded the Homunculus tell him more then and there. 

Although, something told him that even if he pleaded, begged, or threatened Hal, the Monarch would not have given him more than what he needed – and even then the information would be as vague as possible. 

He sighed, thumping the back of his head against the tree he was reclined against. He reached back into his bag to put the pyramid away. His fingers grazed the rough, yet forgiving texture of gnarled wood. 

Jack blinked, looking down into the black maw of his bag. Almost hesitantly, he gripped the wooden staff, and carefully brought it out inch by agonizing inch. He was rather fascinated in watching something so long come out of something a small fraction of its own height. 

The staff now free of its confines, Jack carefully laid it over his crossed knees. Carefully, like he were handing a glass bird, he ran his fingers over the woodgrain. The war energy radiating from it was otherworldly, startling even. Yet somehow, despite its’ warmth, it both seemed more powerful and yet weaker than Hal’s fiery energy. Jack was oddly reminded of the beams of sunlight casting down onto his body on a sunny day. There was a chill about it, yet it never once touched that comforting warmth in its core. 

He looked up at the distinct ‘S’ shape at its top, running his hands over the smooth curves. Despite it having such a heavy looking top, it weighed no more than Jack’s own staff, a testimony to its magic properties. 

_‘Pitch held this before...’_ he thought somberly.

This was Pitch’s weapon, his staff, his right. And yet here Jack was, holding it and touching it like the curious squire who found his knight’s swords. It felt taboo, wrong somehow. He felt like he was handling something precious, something he himself should never even look upon. 

Jack startled suddenly, hands releasing the staff from the pulse of heated energy it suddenly sent him. He stared at it, hands held aloft. At first he thought he had perhaps overstepped his bounds, but after rethinking the hazy pulse…

_‘Patient. Kind. Assuring…’_

Jack swallowed, suddenly overwhelmed. A heat pulsed only for a moment in his chest, before it vanished under his own frozen element. He shook his head slowly, staring at the harmless-looking staff.

“What was…?” 

_‘Hide!’_

Jack gasped, the voice in his head that nearly screamed at him almost desperate. No sooner did he hear it than it vanished, and another sound caught his attention. 

The sound of buzzing fairy wings.

Cursing, Jack scrambled back and behind the tree, his and Pitch’s staff clutched tightly in his hands. His heart was pounding, and he swallowed thickly as the familiar Tooth Fairy came down and hovered just within his hearing range. 

“Jack? Jack! Where are you?” he heard Tooth call for him, but did not dare reply.

_‘What do I do…’_ he thought frantically, _‘What do I do…?!’_

No answer was forthcoming, and Jack mentally cursed the voice for leaving him. He tried to think of what he could do, but his only real options were to either stay hidden or to run. But he knew Tooth could catch him if he flew off, especially with her so close by. Her reflexes were quick, and her wings could cut through any wind current he would feel safe enough to throw at her. He cringed as the sound of buzzing came nearer to his tree. 

“Jack, I know you’re here!” he heard Tooth say, sounding both parts worried yet stern.

Jack gritted his teeth. _‘How did she know I was here…?!’_

He froze as Tooth ventured closer, holding as still as possible, praying that she would not see him. He screwed his eyes shut, clutching his hands over Pitch’s staff like a lifeline. He tried to focus on the warmth within it, the strange, comforting presence it carried and cloaked him in. He could literally hear his heart pounding into his ears, relentless and terrified.

_Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump!_

She was literally right next to him now, turning to look behind the tree to-

“What?” he heard her confused pause, and slowly, carefully, Jack opened his eyes. He nearly gasped, but held himself silent. 

She was literally hovering right in front of him, literally _looking_ at him. And yet…

_‘She…she can’t see me…?’_ Jack blinked dumbly, confused beyond words. 

He watched Tooth frown, before looking down at something in her hands. Jack looked as well, before horror and outrage washed over him.

His tooth box. Tooth had used _his own tooth box_ to track him down.

Tooth bit her lip, looking around her, even up towards the tree canopy. 

“Jack, I know you’re here!” she said loudly, as if unsure if he was close by or further away, “You need to come out!”

Jack blinked, before he looked down at the black staff in his lap. He withheld yet another gasp, staring at the tiny, gossamer flecks of gold that clung to the staff like fading embers on burnt wood. He suddenly seemed to realize that the same flecks of gold were clinging to his body, immersing him in a shadowy cocoon. 

It was _concealing_ him.

Jack did not know whether to feel relieved or unnerved. He settled for the former. 

“No,” he said.

Tooth gasped, veering this way and that, trying to pinpoint his voice. At any other time, Jack would have felt smug and mischievous, but he had no time for such things now. 

“Jack? Where are you? Please, you have to come out!” Tooth pleaded. Jack shook his head, despite knowing she could not see him do so.

“I said, no,” he snapped, “What are you doing here?”

Tooth was still trying to find him, and Jack had to wonder if the staff was also disjointing his voice. With how close he was, she should have been able to pinpoint where exactly his voice was coming from, regardless of his invisibility or not. 

“I came looking for you,” Tooth said shakily, “The others…Jack, it’s chaos back at the Workshop! Nature and Time are there, and something is happening with Pitch!”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “It’s always chaos at the Workshop…”

“This is different!” Tooth exclaimed, becoming frantic and nearly dizzy with her veering around, “Please, you have to come back! I don’t know what’s going on, but Time…he said you were involved somehow! You could be in danger!”

Jack blinked, a bit taken aback. Time had said something about him? About what though? Did he maybe tell the others he was trying to find a way to save Pitch? 

A part of him firmly said no, and he was inclined to agree. He may not know squat about Father Time, but he knew the temporal man was not about to go spilling information that could possibly jeopardize the future. 

He decided to think on it later, and instead broached a subject he knew would make Tooth uncomfortable.

“Why did you use my own tooth box to track me down?” he almost growled.

Tooth’s feathers bristled, and she looked down at her hands, as if wondering how the golden cylinder had gotten there. She bit her lip, expression meek and ashamed.

“I had no other way of finding you…” she said, “Please Jack, you have to understand. We can’t stay here, this is a dangerous place! We’re being hunted now, and you can’t be here alone!”

Jack made as if to reply, but the voice beat him to it.

_‘And who says he is alone?’_ it sneered.

Both he and Tooth paused at the sound of a high-pitched screech. They both looked up at the lower branches hovering over Jack. 

Tooth gasped, veering back with a look of fear in her eyes. White as snow, with flecks of black along its tail and wings, the snowy owl stared at Tooth intently. Its eyes were wide and round, eerily so – and they were made all the more unnerving by their color. They were a cobalt blue so deep and dark they were nearly black. 

This was not an ordinary owl. 

Tooth’s feathers rose against her body, wings flickering stiffly, threateningly at the owl. 

“Jack…” she said, her tone urgent, “We have to go. Now.”

Another screech was heard, this time behind Tooth. She gasped and turned, now facing another owl with eyes matching its cousin. More screeches were heard, mixed in with low hoots and high rasps. Jack gaped up at the tree canopies, and at the dozens of haunting blue eyes peering down at them. 

Jack was too distracted by the sight of so many owls of various breeds, so he did not see how Tooth seemed to fold in on herself in both parts terror and contempt. She actually _hissed_ at a burrowing owl hopping along the ground a bit too close to her. 

And suddenly, the chorus of owl calls was broken by a voice. 

_**“Leave.”** _

Jack gasped, and Tooth veered her head towards the sound. He mentally cursed, but Tooth soon turned back to look at the hoard of owls. She scowled.

“I should have figured it was you…” she snarled.

Jack frowned, confused. Did Tooth know the owner of the voice?

Angry shrieks were heard, followed by the voice – a clearly female voice.

_**“You are not welcome here,”**_ it said, _**“and you will not find what it is you seek here. Leave now, while I spare you.”**_

“Not without Jack!” Tooth snapped, “He needs to come back home!”

A chuckle, low and sultry. It sent a shudder down Jack’s spine.

_**“Dear Toothiana…”**_ it crooned, _**“Jack IS home. Or he soon shall be.”**_

Tooth gasped, face blanching of color. She trembled visibly, hands tight on the golden tooth box.

“What did you do…?” she rasped, “What did you do to him you bitch?!”

Jack had no time to be shocked at Tooth’s cursing, and instead only curled in on himself further as the voice scoffed.

_**“Nothing that you yourself have not done to him,”**_ it said, _**“I have had enough now.”**_

And with a wordless trigger, every owl within the trees unleashed a banshee like shriek, and descended upon Tooth like sharks to a whale carcass. Tooth screamed, immediately downed and pinned to the ground by the various feathered bodies of the larger owls. 

Jack looked away, screwing his eyes shut and trying to shut out her screaming and crying as the owls plucked at her feathers, and clawed at her body. But a sudden weight on his lap gained his attention, and he hesitantly opened his eyes and looked down.

He gasped at the snowy owl perched on Pitch’s staff and on his lap. But the raptor only made a low, crooning hoot at the winter sprite, staring at him with its wide, midnight blue eyes. 

_‘She will not be killed.’_ He startled further at the voice. _‘Merely given a warning.’_

“But…” Jack shook his head, unable to take his eyes off of the owl. 

_‘Hush now…’_ the voice said, just as the owl leaped off of Jack’s lap and onto a nearby tree’s branch. It gave a short cry to him.

_‘Follow,’_ the voice said.

Jack blinked, looking over to where Tooth was still being pecked and clawed at. He cringed, pained for his fellow Guardian. A large part of him wanted to help her, and yet another small side of him knew he could not do so just yet. 

A sigh. _‘If you want the fairy to leave with as little damage as possible, you must leave and follow. Now.’_

Jack jolted out of his resolve. He nodded stiffly, before climbing to his feet. He paused, opening his bag and carefully, yet quickly, stowing Pitch’s staff back inside it. He sprinted after the snowy owl, ignoring the pleas of Tooth telling him to come back. 

To be continued…


	20. Sorrows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOO!!! HAPPY 20th CHAPTER PEOPLE!!! I'm so happy right now. QwQ  
> I want to thank all my readers, reviewers/commenters, kudos givers, followers, watchers, subscribers, even the lurkers!  
> Three years of Solitude and Darkness, and it's still going strong! Thank you so much everyone!! Enjoy this chapter! It is the longest chapter I've written for ANYTHING, and composed of around 15,000 words.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> ~S~

Jack’s long life had mostly been a lonely venture. Unseen by humans, and mostly ignored and unheard of by spirits, the few living things Jack could freely interact with were animals. 

From the penguins and seals of the south and northern points of the globe, to the howling wolves of the untouched forests, and the silent and meek deer and elk of the mountains. Jack had befriended many an animal – even the scurrying mice had become his friends*. He often spoke to them, and they’d often speak back – but normally he could not really understand them. Domestic animals could see and interact with him, but their owners often took them away when they’d start barking or meowing at something that, to them, simply was not there. 

Animals became Jack’s only tangible friends for most of his life. But they also became a source of pain for Jack. Wild as they were, and immortal as he was, there simply was no way for him to hold onto a furry friend for more than a year. Prey was hunted and eaten, and predators were either hunted by humans or simply did not live past their life expectancy. Such was the harsh and unforgiving way of life in the wild. 

Jack could recall many, if not all, of his animal friends. Many were land-based creatures. Others were birds, or even aquatic mammals. Some were playful and filled his days with laughter, while others were best enjoyed during the quieter times. Owls had been one of his quieter friends, often sitting with him in trees and hooting in response to whatever he was talking about. Their eerie stares and overly wide eyes were unnerving at times, but they also gave him a sense in feeling that he was truly being looked at. 

Owls were strange companions though. For although they said nothing to him, whenever one looked at him, Jack could actually _see_ them thinking. Their eyes expressed much, glowing eerily with age’s old wisdom that transcended their actual age. He had always wondered just what it was about owls that fascinated him and drew him in, what it was about them that made him stare back at them. 

And yet…

Jack eyed the owl now guiding him. Its white body was lightly speckled with black flecks customary of the typical Snowy Owl. Its form, round when at rest on a branch, reminded him of an oblong snowball. It flew a few trees ahead of him each time he caught up to it, never letting him out of its sight. And whenever it seemed Jack would slow down, it would let out a sharp, yet brief screech, as if to tell him to pick up the pace. 

So Jack followed it, deeper and deeper into the wooded area he found himself in. He honestly had no idea the forest had run this deep, and only seemed to truly wonder where they were when the trees began to disperse and replace themselves with high, craggy boulders and rocks. Pathways lined by stony walls surrounded him like the crumbling walls of a debilitating maze, trees becoming fewer. The rocks were dark and damp, slick with moss and sediment. Vaguely Jack thought he could hear running water somewhere up ahead. 

“Where exactly are we going?” he couldn’t help but ask, despite knowing the owl would not answer - it never did when he asked the last dozen or so times, “I’m kind of on a time limit here, you know.” 

The owl, predictably, did not answer, and instead flew further ahead to land on a mostly dead tree. It screeched at Jack curtly, feathers ruffling. Jack sighed, pushing on ahead through a narrow path between two large boulders.

“Fine…” he groaned, “This better be worth it though…”

In all honesty, doubt was starting to beat at the forefront of his mind. He thought back to Tooth, of how he had just left her there with those owls. The voice had told him she would not be truly harmed, but he still wondered and thought of the fairy. He somehow managed to stop most of his doubtful thoughts though, pressing a hand into his bag to feel the cylindrical outline of his tooth box. 

She had used his own teeth to track him – like a bloodhound would use a piece of clothing to track a lost child. 

_‘Or a criminal…’_ he thought bitterly. 

He sighed, taking note of the fog that seemed to pour through the rocks and trees like a flood of ghostly water. The sky was almost entirely black, not a single star present in the hazy sky. The fact that he had no idea where he was going, or where the owl was leading him, had kept Jack from flying in the area. He had no idea what – or who – was possibly out here with him. Disliber’s attack was a good reminder of just how much damage had been caused, and just how much anger was in the hearts of spirits. He could not risk being seen – best to keep to the ground and take the slow route, than to risk being shot out of the air like a hunted pheasant.

The owl screeched again, this time having flown around an outcrop of rocks. Jack could vaguely hear it land on something with foliage – a tree perhaps? 

He pushed on, using his staff to help haul himself over a boulder, and peer down into the area the owl had vanished into. 

“Whoa…” he breathed.

The fog and darkness had mostly hidden it from sight, but now from his new vantage point, Jack could see they had come to a small mountainside, or perhaps the sheer inner wall of a canyon or cliff. 

And up against that dark, damp and jagged cliff, was a tree.

Or perhaps the word ‘tree’ was a bit obtuse. This tree was strange. Strange in that it did not appear to be a single tree, but two. The twin trunks were set apart on the ground, the length between them measuring just above the width of perhaps Jack’s shoulders. But up towards the middle, the two trees curved inwards towards each other, until they finally met completely and utterly a mere six feet up. The ‘torso’ of the tree was thick, yet it showed not the trees just simply touching, but _merging_ into a thick, wooden waist. The singly merged trunk stretched upwards, and finally ended in a hulking explosion of twisted, gnarled, and mostly bare limbs. 

The owl was perched on one of the lowest limbs, waiting patiently and staring at Jack with its eerie, cobalt blue eyes. It made not a single sound, and nor did it move a single feather. If Jack were anyone else, he would assume it were not even alive. 

“Wow…” he breathed, hopping down from the boulder to stand in the small clearing that held the tree. He was shocked to feel grass under his feet though, whereas everywhere else it was barren and covered in dank dirt. And there was a breeze…

_‘Wait, no, not a breeze…’_ He looked up at the opening between the joined trees. 

And instead of seeing the wall of the cliff within the opening, he saw an endless abyss of darkness. The trees formed the entrance of a cavern, and just within its recesses, Jack could feel the cold puffs of air huffing out of it and against his form. 

The trees and cavern seemed to breathe rhythmically, yet there was not a single sign of light to indicate that the cavern itself opened up on the other side. 

He looked to the owl. “You…am I supposed to go in?” he asked skeptically. 

The owl didn’t respond with its usual screech. And instead, it glided down to Jack and perched itself soundlessly and weightlessly on a thick root next to the opening. It seemed to regard Jack, its head slightly cocked. Jack decided to take the odd stare as a ‘yes’. 

His hand clenched around his staff, uncertainty clouding his former urgency and bravado. He approached the narrow opening, eyes narrowing somewhat against the dry, cold breath of the tunnel’s maw. He looked to his companion, the owl staring back studiously and expectantly. 

Jack eyed his staff, then the narrow tunnel opening. He wondered if the owl would even be able to fly through such a small space. Cautiously, he turned his staff downwards and towards the owl. The reaction was almost immediate.

The owl bristled, feathers rising and eyes narrowing. Its wings shot out in a defensive gesture, beak opening with an almost outraged screech. It flapped its wings aggressively, causing Jack to shuffle back a few steps in startled bewilderment.

“Okay! Sorry…” He pulled his staff back and away from the owl, looking to the cavern again. “I was just trying to help, geez…”

The owl seemed to glare at Jack, its feathers settled, but its stance and obvious aggression towards Jack unhindered. It confused Jack; he had only been offering the owl a ride on his staff while they traversed the tunnel, there was no need for the damn bird to get so huffy and puffy over it! 

_‘You will understand soon.’_ He startled at the voice in his head, somehow clearer and louder. _‘Now hurry, you must not waste time. Go.’_

Jack decided to heed the voice’s urging, and without another glance towards the owl, he climbed up the few small rocks forming an incline, and shuffled through the opening. 

Despite the entrance’s size, the tunnel itself was much wider than Jack had thought, providing enough room for the entire length of his staff if he were to hold it end to end pointing to each side wall. It was dark though, darker than it was outside. He was about to issue a small mental command to light up his staff and brighten his way, but abruptly stopped the thought.

No, he couldn’t use his staff here. He didn’t know why, but he simply knew it was a bad idea to use his staff here. 

He turned abruptly at the sound of a small, raspy croon behind him. The owl, sitting in the threshold of the entrance, stared at Jack calmly, motionless. And before Jack could utter a sound, the owl spread its wings and flew a small ways into the tunnel, landing on a jutting rock in the wall. But it wasn’t the action of the owl that startled Jack, but rather what had become of the owl itself. 

It was glowing. Its white feathers shimmered, casting an eerie white light into the tunnel. Not enough to completely light it up, but enough to be used as a guiding light for further travel. Its eyes seemed to brighten, flecks of silver, gold, and white flickering faintly in its solid cobalt eyes. It had stars in its eyes*, a slowly churning nebula of mystery and cold, boasting lights of tremendous heat and fire. 

_‘Follow.’_

And Jack did. 

The owl led him deeper and deeper into the dark, damp cavern. No sound was heard aside from the eerie _drip-drip_ of cave water, and the occasional scuff of Jack’s bare feet over the dusty floor. Further they went, the trek itself seemingly going on for days. Yet in actuality, it had only been perhaps ten minutes since Jack had seen any form of natural light. 

The owl kept him going in the same manner as they had in the forest. It would fly ahead of Jack, landing on a rock or the floor and wait for him to catch up, then fly ahead again. Although he felt urged, Jack did not want to risk running, not even in the supposed security of the tunnel. Caution had forever been etched like a scar into his mind, and he would dare not risk that scar fading for fear of making another fatal mistake. He would not be brash now – he could not afford to be reckless now. 

And it seemed his caution paid off in the next few steps.

The owl made its final landing, this time in a small, rounded cavern that went no further. But unlike the tunnels, it was not completely dark. 

The owl’s light was highlighted by the haunting yellow glow coming from its new perch. It stood not on a rock now, but a round, stone well. A well with a small, dead tree overhanging it, and holding in one brittle branch a single, lit iron lantern. 

Jack stared at the ancient-looking well, slowly approaching it in awe and curiosity. The tree appeared to be dead, its branches brittle and leafless. It seemed to grow from one side of the well and curve over its opening, reaching down in an arch like long, clawed fingers. The lantern looked unbearably heavy in the tree’s branch, its single, shy light daunted and nearly stifled by the very darkness of the cavern. 

Cautiously, he placed a hand over the cold, wet stone surface. It was frigid, unsurprisingly, yet the stones were smoothed from ages of acidic cave water carving out its smooth surface. 

He cast the owl a stunned look, before slowly peering down into the well. His stomach churned, nausea rising into his throat. The lantern didn’t even light the entire upper half of the well, and yet Jack could clearly see just how deep it was. It was not just a well that led down into a dry spring, but rather an abyss. An abyss that seemed to go down for _miles_. 

_‘There’s no bottom…’_ his more frightened subconscious told him.

His jaw tightened in apprehension, looking up at the owl along the well’s ledge.

“I have to go down…” It wasn’t truly a question, nor was it a comment. It sounded more like he was trying to validate his own conclusion. 

The owl made no answer. It only bent its head down to peer into the well. It seemed to stare into the gaping abyss hypnotically, eyes unblinking and unwavering. Its wings opened just the tiniest bit, as if to balance itself over the edge. But without any further warning, it tipped forward, and _fell in._

Jack gasped, watching in a stunned stupor as the white light of the owl plunged headlong into the abyss of the well. It made no sound, no cry, and made no attempt to catch itself. It was simply _falling._

And Jack, whether from a moment of encouragement, stupidity, or both, followed it. 

With a breathless gasp, and an instinctual urge to _follow_ , Jack hoisted himself up over the well’s edge, and dove down head first. 

His breath caught in his throat, yet his mouth gaped in a scream that refused to dislodge itself from his chest. He trembled, hands tight around his staff, his body locked in a straight line as he fell like an arrow. And yet, the fall itself did not feel like _falling_ ; it felt more like he was flying, diving through an unseen sky and down towards the unforgiving ground. 

He had caught up with the owl, and could only stare wide-eyed at its tail feathers as it only continued to fall. Seconds passed, and still Jack saw no end to the well, even with the owl’s light. Another second passed, and the owl suddenly opened its wings, and Jack’s organs did a back flip as he was suddenly flying _up._

_‘How…?’_ His brain, addled and virtually turned to mush by the sudden change in gravity, could not function anymore. 

Instinctively, Jack called his wind to propel him upwards, his confusion masking his need to question the impossible. The owl flew further ahead, as if eager to reach its destination. And it only took Jack but a few moments to realize the owl was no longer lit up – and the light he had been seeing at some unknown point of his fall, was coming from the exit. 

The owl burst from the opening, and Jack could only follow with a desperate gasp, and a weakened resolve as he seemed to fly out, and then plummeted onto solid ground. He lay there, fingers digging painfully into the ground, as he gasped and retched, his body and mind disoriented and confused. He blinked rapidly, eyes burning from unshed tears of unknown origin. 

He coughed, feeling like he had left his innards somewhere back in the well. But when he seemed to finally catch up to himself, and confirm that he had indeed arrived whole and without any missing organs, he finally took notice of something.

Light. Smell. _Grass._

Jack blinked, dumbly looking down at where he sat doubled over on his knees. His fingers twitched, trembling against the lush green grass under him. A scent assaulted his nose, damp, earthy and fertile. It reminded him somewhat of Bunny’s Warren, and yet, it was distinctly not like the Pooka’s lush home. 

Jack did not even look up, his entire form overcome with a sense of emotion he simply could not name. It was painful, and yet he could not help but embrace it fully and without hesitation. His heart hammered in his chest, and he breathed deeply the air of his new surroundings.

This smell, it was so much stronger than he recalled. He had smelled it before, back in Pitch’s lair. He had smelled it on the Boogeyman’s bed and clothes, he had picked up its faint wafting throughout his entire home. A burning forest doused in rain. 

Jack did not even need to look up to know. This was the home of the dark spirits. 

And for some reason, it also felt like his home. 

A low screech was heard, and Jack finally looked up. His breath caught in his throat. 

The owl sat perched on the well – the same well Jack had entered and come out of – and stared at Jack. But Jack could not stare at the owl, so much as he could at what was around him. 

He appeared to be sitting in a small garden of some sort, surrounded by flowers, trees, and foliage. The darkness of this place he found himself in, found only in caves, was only stifled by the _hundreds_ of iron lanterns with their single flickers of flame. He seemed to be on a sharp cliff that overlooked not just a large cave, but an entire _city._

“Oh my…” Jack could only shake his head, awestruck. 

The cavern was _massive_ , with no visible ending walls in sight. Cloaked in a darkness that was born not of Nature, the city of stone buildings and iron structures stole Jack’s breath away. There was barely any noticeable color, except for the otherwise mentioned lights. There was no grass anywhere else except where he stood, seemingly suspended in an oasis, an Eden. 

And yet, all around the city – creeping over buildings, winding around structures, lanterns, and rocks, was the overgrowth of a single flower and dense foliage. 

Jack could only stare, his frame trembling, his fingers digging into the damp soil and grass beneath him. His knees trembled as he stood, just barely remembering to grab his staff as he did so. The bag over his shoulder was suddenly too heavy for his weak body to handle, and he had to force himself to grab onto his staff with both hands and lean heavily on it, else he collapse in an awestruck heap. 

“This…this is it…” he rasped, “This is his…”

_‘This is Pitch’s home. This is his kingdom…’_

Jack didn’t even flinch at the voice in his head. He could only nod slightly, his entire focus taken up by the towering structures and winding paths. It was so much like Pitch’s lair, yet it was so much bigger, and so much _more._

Jack was so taken by the haunting sight of the empty city, he did not even realize tears were falling from his eyes and gliding down his cheeks. His chest throbbed a painful note in his chest. 

_‘You can’t stop yet.’_

Jack blinked, still oblivious to his tears, and turned to the owl. It crooned lowly, spreading its wings once more and flying down a pathway leading down into the belly of the city. Unable to even think of anything else, let alone make a conscious decision, Jack followed on shaky feet. 

He staggered down the cobble-stoned path, eyes wide and trying to catch onto everything he could possibly see. And yet when he would start to slow, the owl would give an urging screech, and Jack would push on reluctantly. He felt like he was in a daze, drugged and walking through a thick fog. And yet the clarity of everything he saw was immediate proof that he was not suffering some strange dream, nor was he walking through the hazy cloud of an illusion or hallucination. 

They passed many stone structures and buildings – houses and large buildings not unlike temples lay scattered about the stony city. Yet down they went, further and further, the structures continued to remain, their scarcity all but naught. 

Trees stood scattered about randomly, some seemingly growing through the stone and over buildings. Yet they all appeared to be dead, barren and leafless, the bark tarnished and almost like coal. The trees were all black, yet more resembled trees that had caught fire and then were doused poorly after hours of burning. It was so dark, the weak light of the flames almost useless in such confines.

Long and winding water ways lay dry, sliding throughout the entire city like snakes, or the roots of a vast tree. Stone fountains lay dormant, silent without their babbling language of falling water. All was dried up and barren, a husk. All that remained were the flickering lights of weak flames held within the rugged wrought iron lanterns, and glass panels. 

The city, Jack realized, was all but dead now. No one was here, and somehow he could just tell – this city was nowhere near its actual glory and beauty. He may have been an awe of this dying city, but he knew he would have been absolutely floored if he saw it in the peak of its true form. 

The buildings finally began to disperse, slowly being replaced with smooth, bare stone walls. Doors leading to unknown destinations were taken up by open, intricately carved windows that, upon further inspection of one, were not windows, but water ways and fountains. But no water fell from their elegantly carved maws. The channels, once flooded with water to be poured into the abyss, were completely dry, and held nothing but dust, dried moss and dead algae. Trees were becoming plentiful, but as they were above, so they were below – dead, scorched, lifeless and brittle. 

_‘Like Pitch…’_ Jack shuddered, but pushed on. 

Sound was finally registering in his ears. While the fountains and water channels seemed to be dried up, there was still running water somewhere. Jack could hear it, quiet and almost shy. The sound of a flowing river pouring into another water source. 

And he soon gained his answer to the sound as his owl guide led him down another staircase that turned down and into a stony bridge. They had finally reached the bottom.

And Jack gasped at the sight. 

The bottom of the abyss was just scarcely, intimately lit, hushed and almost mournful with its soft glow. Small as it was, Jack had never seen a garden so dark yet so bright. And that’s what this place was, he was sure – it was a garden, an Eden.

More of those strange, star-like flowers nearly overran the docile wilderness around him. Their petals licked at the edge of the small rivers and pools scattered about the garden, their shining reflections not unlike dazzling stars on an inky, glassy canvas. The waters were an abyssal black, depthless and so still, not a single ripple disturbing their surfaces. Lily pads holding more of those gossamer flowers glided like slow figure skaters over the mirror-like surface of the water, not the least bit hurried by the river’s flow or the stifling stillness of the ponds. 

The stony bridge Jack stood before was flanked by more wrought iron lanterns, but these ones were lit. Their eerie golden glow was oddly dazzling, yet melancholy – the final light of a dying star, the last breath held within a fading sun. The cobblestone path leading into the garden arched over a river, its stone structure damp and slick with moss, its flanking lanterns being strangled by the creeping vines which Jack could not name. 

The grass ahead of him in the garden was so dark, yet lush, their only source of light being the few drops of dew being lit by the haunting glow of the flowers and lanterns. More flowers congealed chaotically around the garden – some not unlike the glowing star-shaped flowers, others of origin and name Jack could not recall or compare. A few stone fountains lay scattered about the garden, their waters either dried up or reduced to a strangled trickle. Other strange stone structures and statues Jack could not truly describe lay scattered about as well, some resembling statues of twisted creatures, others of the broken remains of what were once beautiful works of art, not crumbled and malformed. More lanterns lay scattered about – some glowing dimly, shyly. Others flickered in their last attempted gasps of life. And yet more lay dark, empty of their light and veiled in the mourning weeds of shadows. 

But none of this could have prepared him for what lay in the heart of the garden – it all paled in comparison to the ominous, yet ethereal giant that dominated the Eden he stood before.

The tree, black as the charred bark of a decimated and fire-eaten forest, was massive. Tall, yet not the tallest Jack had ever seen, yet the energy it radiated only made it seem like so much _more_. Its branches splayed out above the garden, its foliage of the darkest color Jack had ever seen – almost black. More of the glowing flowers grew from this tree in its lush canopy, vines a darkened grey hanging from its limbs like nooses, and climbing down its thick trunk like snakes. 

But at its base, where a solid trunk and a few roots would be, there was something Jack could not fully comprehend. The trunk was not even settled on the ground where it should be. Rather, the tree’s thick, powerful roots had elevated the tree upwards of what had to be an extra ten or so feet, leaving a shaded sanctuary underneath it. Its great roots flanked this hollow, impossible canopy, acting as powerful pillars of support over what lay just under the tree’s hulking form. 

The stone altar was carved of the deepest, glassiest obsidian, smooth yet boasting jagged edges of the most natural cut. Deadly in its shining grace and sultry luster, yet the gold runes carved into it softened its dagger-like appearance – like gold jewelry upon a sword, the altar was a source of power and peace. More flowers grew along its base, surrounding it like the wreath of a coffin ready to be put into the ground. 

Breath stolen, his heart thumping thunderously in his chest, Jack could not tear his eyes away from the magnificent tree and what it held within its roots. It stood like a vigilant sentinel over the altar, looming and powerful, its charge deadly yet peaceful. The sword and the shield, obsidian and wood, Nature’s very own weapons of peace and destruction. 

Jack startled as his companion made a low crooning noise, and he turned his head to find the owl perched upon one of the stone fountains just a small ways away from the tree. Jack swallowed, as he just now seemed to realize he was on the other side of the bridge. He had not even realized he had crossed it! 

And yet, as he took in the feel of the soft, cool grass under his bare feet, and inhaled the earthy, burning smell perfuming the entire cavern, he could not help but feel something he never thought he had been missing.

_Home._

The owl called to Jack again, and the frost sprite obeyed its call. Knees weak, and chest lighter than air, he staggered over to the owl with wide eyes. He stopped in front of the owl, but instead of asking what it wanted, he paused as his toes brushed against soft petals. Looking down, he blinked at the patch of starlight flowers just at his feet, their vivid black lines bursting from their centers, a shock against their glowing gold petals. 

The frost sprite slowly knelt down, staff lying in the grass, and one hand reaching out to one of the flowers. Gently, his fingers cupped the star-like bloom, its stem smooth yet stiff between his index and middle finger. He knew these were no ordinary flowers, even before he touched one. But it was only confirmed as his hand met with a gentle warmth radiating from the flower. Light as a feather, and just as soft, it was like holding a summer breeze in the palm of his hand. 

_‘What are these flowers…?’_ he wondered.

“They’re called Night Gladiolus*.” 

Jack gasped, startling back and falling on his backside. He clutched his staff tightly, head swiveling to and fro as he tried to pinpoint the voice he had heard. Above him, his owl companion hooted and took off once more, yet it lacked the urgency it had when leading Jack down to the garden. 

Jack watched the owl fly upwards and up to one of the stone balconies overlooking the garden. A slender hand clad in a black silken glove stretched outwards, and the owl landed on it with the gentleness of a loving child taking its mother’s hand. The hand pulled the owl to its owner as they came to step before the balcony railing, revealing themselves to Jack below. 

Jack’s breath hitched, eyes wide and jaw tight. 

The woman was pale as moonlight, her skin an almost silvery white, and her lips painted such a dark blue, they could have been black. Her body was slender, yet boasted sultry and womanly curves. She appeared to wear an asymmetrical, mermaid style dress of the darkest blue silk. Dropping from the slant cut was a black train that matched her gloves, and a black furred cloak about her shoulders and arms. Her hair was jet black, a wavy cascade that fell down her back in a thick, sultry plait. Her eyes were of the deepest blue, not unlike the owl’s eyes. Yet just around her pupils, Jack could faintly make out a star burst ring of gold*. 

A necklace of gold hung about her slender neck, the pendent hanging just above her full bosom. 

Jack blinked, nearly mistaking the woman for Mother Nature herself. Yet despite their similarities, this woman was so obviously different from Nature. But there was something about her that made Jack wonder if this was perhaps Nature’s sister – if she even had one. 

He swallowed, climbing to his feet slowly, not taking his gaze off of the mysterious woman. Yet somehow he knew who this was.

“Are…are you Sorrows?” he asked. 

The woman nodded once. “Yes, I am.”

Jack reeled back as her cloak – which turned out to not in fact be a cloak – suddenly opened and spread out. Her wings, black as night, lifted her soundlessly over the balcony with one slow beat. She glided silently down towards Jack – her wings were mute, silent as the mighty wings of the Great Horned Owl. 

He gasped, her lift revealing another trait to her body. As her dress billowed from the takeoff, Jack caught sight of her feet and some of her legs – or what would have been legs and feet. 

Sorrows had not the feet or legs of a human woman, but the dark, leathery talons of a bird of prey*. Her claws were like curved daggers of obsidian, sharp and deadly, curling lazily as she became airborne. They no sooner spread out in the typical three-pronged spread of a bird on a flat surface, her hind talon arching and stabbing shallowly into the ground than her dress came to settle back around her feet, concealing her strange appendages. 

Landing before Jack, the frost sprite stepped back somewhat in apprehension. Up close, Sorrows was a very petite woman, yet her large wings and deadly talons gave her such a daunting appearance. Her wings folded neatly behind her back, once more bringing back her pseudo-cloak of feathers, and her owl companion moved to sit upon a large rock beside Sorrows. Her hands came to link daintily at her front. Jack flushed slightly; her dress was strapless, the top edge of her bodice lined with black feathers, and boasted a deep cut in the front. It was skintight too, and he tried not to immediately focus on the voluminous cleavage she sported, only emphasized by bringing her arms and hands to her front. 

Jack would almost confuse her for a Succubus with her sultry, womanly curves and seductive aura. Yet he could not fully connect her to such malicious creatures. She had the energy of one from the Daemon class, but there was a strange, unnamable undertone to it that softened its edges. He did not know what to call her. But he did know that she was a dark spirit – a powerful one.

She nodded once to Jack, as if in greeting.

“I am Lady Sorrows,” she introduced herself, “The Guardian of the Black Kingdom, and my King’s faithful gardener.”

Jack swallowed thickly, his heart pounding. He suddenly felt so inadequate, like a peasant being approached by a queen. He almost felt like he had to kneel to her, yet he could not seem to figure out how to do much of anything before the sultry woman. 

“I…I-I’m Jack Frost. I’m a Gua-”

“I know who and what you are, dear Frost,” Sorrows cut Jack off, her tone firm yet not impolite, “I also know why you are here.”

Her necklace glinted oddly against the dim glow of the cavern, catching Jack’s eye briefly. But he quickly focused his eyes back on Sorrows’ face, and was about to speak again.

_**“You have questions.”** _

He gasped, reeling back as not only the voice in his head spoke, but Sorrows’ lips moved in perfect time to the words itself. He trembled, eyes wide as he blinked dumbly. A hand went to the side of his head, and he stared at Sorrows in bewilderment. 

The voice…it had spoken, and so had Sorrows. Why had they…?

_“You know her, Jack,”_ Hal’s words rung like a bell in his memory, _“We’ve all seen her, felt her, heard her voice. She is someone everyone meets eventually, not long after you’re born.”_

_‘Sorrows…sorrow itself…’_ he thought dumbly, _‘All this time…’_

“It…it was you,” he rasped, “ _You_ were the voice inside my head this whole time?”

Sorrows said nothing at first, only cast her depthless gaze upon Jack like a falcon tracking a mouse. Jack swallowed thickly again, suddenly apprehensive and uncertain. But she made no move to attack, and finally spoke after a moment’s pause.

“It was I, yes,” she said, “But it was you who called me to speak within your mind. I do not intrude upon minds without their permission.” 

“Permission? I never called you!” Jack snapped, confused and uncertain, “I never even heard of you until recently!”

“But you did, dear Frostling,” Sorrows said calmly, “You may not have openly asked for my presence in your mind, nor did you actively ask for me. But your heart and mind, your very soul, begged me to lurk in your mind.”

“How…?” Jack rasped, his form trembling and anxiety eating away at him, “I never… _how?_ ”

Sorrows said nothing, and Jack narrowed his eyes on her suspiciously. But when he looked at her face, her eyes, something seemed to click in his memory. He had seen those eyes before. At Libra’s Court, when the whole courtroom had been cast in shadows and a single glowing light from Hal’s hands, only matched by the eerie glow of various eyes. 

_“You should have known that damning our King to his own Nightmares was not going to end in a tea party, or some other pleasantry. You_ had _to have known it would end in him beaten and broken in mind and body…”_

Her voice…her eyes…he had _seen_ them.

“You were at the court…” he rasped. 

Sorrows only nodded faintly once, her own eyes narrowing. But it all made sense now. Jack was at his most vulnerable at the court, and had called into question many things in that small window of time. It would have been the perfect opportunity for Sorrows to hear his unconscious call to her for answers, his doubts screaming and ringing like the bells of Notre Dame. Any spirit with even a tiny ability of empathy responded to what they heard from the minds of others, the calls and questions and doubts that not even the owners of those minds could hear. 

Sorrows had heard Jack’s heart screaming in doubt and slowly breaking stability. And so she answered, and planted the seed of doubt into his heart, and sang it to bloom with words of cold honesty, and stony empathy. 

He suddenly paused, a realization clicking in his head. Now calmed somewhat, Jack’s tongue unraveled itself in a simple question.

“Who are you?” he asked.

In that moment, Jack almost swore he saw the corners of her full mouth twitch upwards ever so slightly and for the briefest moment. But the would be smile was gone before Jack could wonder about it any longer, and the owl woman spoke.

“I am Lady Sorrows,” she repeated, but with a softer and more open tone, “I am Pitch Black’s loyal gardener, and the Guardian of the Black Kingdom. I am the Spirit of Sorrow.”

She nodded to Jack in a vague gesture. “My job, dear one, is to be the voice of anguish and truth in your mind. When all hope is lost, it is I who bears pain and unleashes it upon you when it is needed. It is I who hurts the mourning and the lost, so that they may fight against their pain and conquer it. I am that which makes you mourn when a loved one dies, I am that which plants seeds of anguish, pain, anger, and guilt into hearts, and I cultivate those seeds until they grow into thorns that strangle the heart and bleed the lungs. But I am also that which cuts down those thorns and weeds…”

She gestured to the garden at large then, and her lips twitched up in the faintest of smiles. 

“I am the Devil’s Consort, Mother of Evil, Ardat Lili, Par Excellence…” she said, “But, in simpler words, I am called Lilith*.”

Jack blinked dumbly, the name clicking a faint recognition in his head. Lilith – a name meaning ‘screech owl’, a name associated with harbingers of death and destruction, of sin and evil. Lilith was the name of a biblical woman, the supposed first wife of Adam. The demoness that mothered innumerable demons from fallen angels, yet the damned woman who walked into Death’s embrace as pure as snow. The owl demon of the wilderness, Sorrows, _Lilith_ , was a spirit of a dark standing within the human religion.

This not only made her powerful in every sense of the word. It made her _dangerous._

And she was one of _Pitch’s_ children.

“You seem surprised, dear Frost,” she said calmly. Jack could only nod once shakily.

“I’m…I’m not sure what to say to this…” he rasped. Sorrows only shrugged flippantly.

“It is to be expected,” she said, “But you must not believe all that you hear, let alone what humans say of our kind.”

It was a stated fact that many spirits, even when revealed to humans, were often misinterpreted by said humans. Especially back in ancient times, when spirits were easier to come by. Yet when they were seen, their colors and greys were ignored, covered by the black and white vision of the human eye and mind. Jack had not met many demons, or anyone in the Daemon class, but he knew most of what humans said about them was utter rubbish. 

But that did not mean he was going to let his guard down before such a powerful woman. Figures of the biblical and religious cults were never people to trifle with. Good or evil, grey or colorful, you _never_ turn your back on someone who very well might have holy and unholy worshipers under their wings. 

She suddenly cocked her head to one side, a gesture of birdlike curiosity.

“The other Guardians do not give you nearly enough credit for your intelligence,” she commented.

Jack blinked, his cheeks coloring slightly. He wasn’t too sure if that was a compliment, but he decided to take whatever positivity he could get from someone who could so very obviously wipe the floor with him. 

But instead of delving into her origin any further, he decided to have a rather significant question answered.

“What…is this place?” he asked.

Sorrows looked about the garden, as if just realizing it was there at all. Her expression sobered, her eyes hooding ever so slightly. Her thick lashes seemed to briefly tremble, her hands tightening at her front. Jack began to worry that he had overstepped his bounds, and yet he could not help but wonder why she seemed so…hurt. She reminded him of a widow standing at her husband’s funeral, alone and completely at the mercy of the mourning ghosts of the past. 

“This is Pitch Black’s garden, the very witness of my own and my brothers’ and sisters’ birth…”

She gestured grandly with one elbow length glove clad arm to the garden at large. 

“This place is called The Umbra Edenis,” she said, “This is the Shadow Eden, the very heart of the Black Kingdom, and the mirror to my King’s very heart and soul. I cultivate, nurse, and tend to his very heart and soul, so that my King may prosper, and in turn help his subjects, his children, to prosper. This is where he was born. This is where we all were born.” 

Jack blinked dumbly, taken aback by her words. And yet, simple as they were, he only became more confused. Sorrows seemed to read the confusion in his eyes, and continued.

“My job, dear Frostling, first and foremost is to see that my King is protected and his heart thriving,” she said, “This garden, and even the whole kingdom itself, is a direct link to Pitch, and therefore, its bounty and beauty shows the state of his heart, mind, and soul.” 

Again, Jack blinked, and he looked around the garden once more. And the more of the garden he took in, the more he became a little more confused.

“It…doesn’t look bad at all, though,” he said. Sorrows shook her head.

“Because you are not looking closely enough…” she said, “Though I must wonder if you are strong enough to see just how damaged this Eden is. I wonder if you truly want to see the physical manifestation of my King’s heart up close and with open eyes.”

Jack frowned, a retort on the tip of his tongue. But looking back now, on his track record of ignorance and childish blindness, accompanied by lies and sugar-coated words…

He could not blame Sorrows for doubting him. Even Jack doubted himself right now. Did he honestly want to see how damaged Pitch’s very heart was? Did he truly want to see how hurt his own _children_ were right now? It wouldn’t even be the whole world, but a half of a single whole of the world they lived in. He would be seeing how much the dark itself was suffering, and therefore how the rest of the world was faring. Dark, light, spirit, mortal, Earth itself, perhaps even the universe itself. He would see but a tiny fraction of just how broken the world was becoming…

“Pain is a foul but fair teacher,” Sorrows suddenly said, “Sometimes we must face that which hurts, that which crushes our very hearts, so that we may build them back up again and come out stronger. Sometimes, we have to be scarred so that we may heal.”

Jack swallowed thickly, a strange, prickly force constricting his heart. His gaze shot up to Sorrows, who only gazed back impassively. This was the woman who could grasp his heart in the palm of her hands and surround it with thorns. She was the one who put that miserable _beast_ below his heart and had brought to the surface the numerous pains and guilt he had long buried. And yet, she barely did anything. He himself had made his own heart fertile ground for the sorrow she planted in him, and he himself had been the one to welcome the writhing beast to sleep and suffer under his weed and thorn infested heart. Jack had been the one to taint his own heart, to make it the perfect garden for such anguish and misery. Sorrows had only planted a seed. 

_‘I don’t want to hurt…’_ he thought, _‘But…maybe I need to?’_

What better teacher to show you the truth, than pain itself? Who better to show him his wrongs and wounds, and then to help heal those wounds into scars, than Sorrows?

Who better to hurt, then to heal, than the Spirit of Sorrow herself?

Jack startled slightly at hearing the dark spirit hum in intrigue to herself. She smiled only slightly at Jack, her approval only matched by her obvious grief. 

“You continue to surprise me, Frostling,” she said. 

Without another word, she walked towards the tree. And Jack followed her silently, both parts fearful yet fearless.

She stopped just a few feet from the hollow trunk of the tree, Jack stopping behind her a small distance away. 

“This tree is the mirror representation of our King,” she said, “And within its branches, his very arms, are his subjects.”

She looked up at the nearest branch of the tree, and Jack followed her gaze. He gasped in surprise.

What he at first thought to be flowers growing from the tree were not flowers at all. The glowing petals were, in fact, the spread wings of dozens upon dozens of _butterflies._

“What…?” he rasped, looking to Sorrows, “What are they doing here? Are they yours?”

Sorrows shook her head, her gaze resting on the gold and black butterfly. Her eyes were hooded, and Jack could not help but note the mournful look in them. As if she were looking at a dying loved one. 

“They are not mine,” she said softly, “They are Pitch’s. As I said, this tree represents Pitch himself. And these butterflies, they are the representation of us; his children.”

Jack’s head veered back to the butterfly, eyes wide. His children…the other dark spirits. These butterflies were the living lights of Pitch’s very life. They were to him what the glowing dots on the Globe were to the Guardians, yet so much _more_. They were his entirely, not just random children that believed in him. They were that which was most precious to Pitch, his beacons of light that he held in the arms of this tree, safe in this sacred Eden of shadows and light. 

And yet…

He frowned, looking closer at the butterfly, then taking note of a few others. Something was not right about them. He had never seen them before, yet something told him that this was not what they were supposed to look like. They should be brighter, stronger. There was something inside of Jack that was telling him that this was not _right_.

“There’s…something’s wrong with them,” he said uncertainly.

“Indeed,” Sorrows sighed sadly, “There is…”

She suddenly looked down at the ground, and the frost sprite followed her gaze. At first, he frowned, not exactly sure what he was looking at. At first he thought he was looking at a bunch of scattered pebbles, or the chipped and crumbled remains of some stone structure. But the shapes were consistent, nearly all the same in size. But there was something familiar about them, and he looked closer.

He gasped in horror, his heart plunging into his gut. 

They were not rocks or broken pieces of a stone structure.

They were butterflies.

An uncountable number of lifeless, and lightless butterflies littered the ground all around the tree’s roots and raised trunk. Their wings, brittle and a dull grey, were broken and torn, their delicate bodies crushed and laying haphazard from their fall from their beloved tree. 

Jack shuddered, the blood draining from his face. These butterflies…they were no longer alive. Which meant the dark spirit they mirrored was no longer _alive_. These butterflies were…

He gasped, seeing one dead butterfly’s wing caught under his foot, crushing the appendage utterly. He yelped in fright, leaping back. But he only cried out again as a distinct _crunch_ was heard under his foot, and he looked around.

They were _everywhere_ , the bodies of hundreds of lives, the very soul and breath of unnamed dark spirits. Under the canopy of their tree, within the shadow of their King’s very heart, they had died, and fell from his arms. 

Jack panted painfully, his heart hammering relentlessly against his ribs. He could only look around frantically, as if trying to find a means of escape – or perhaps a means of hope for this garden turned graveyard.

“No…” he rasped, hands trembling around his staff. 

And as if to provoke his sanity even more, a sound was heard. 

A gasp, desperate and dying, the last breath of a pained soul. Jack’s head shot up at the source of the pained sound, and his eyes could only widen as the butterfly that mirrored the life of a dark spirit suddenly released the leaf it sat upon. Its glow vanished utterly and completely, turning the butterfly into a brittle grey stone. 

And it fell from the tree to join its fallen brothers and sisters on the ground. 

And Jack could only _watch_ as, right before his eyes, a fellow spirit died, and a King, a God, lost yet another one of his children.

Someone Jack had perhaps met, or never met at all, had _died_. 

Above him, Sorrows could only sigh, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. But she could not shed such salty waters. She had cried for far too longer now. Not even the death of one of her siblings could pull her anguish from her eyes anymore. Not after fifty years of seeing so much death.

“It has been like this for so long,” she said softly, “I can recall seeing the first one fall. It was only perhaps forty years ago. He fell swiftly and without pain. But not long after, more of our siblings joined him, and suddenly butterflies are raining from the tree which bore us…”

Her hands tightened at her sides, her heart physically aching. Her wings shuddered once, eyes distant as they turned to look into a past full of confusion, anger, terror, and grief. 

“I could not understand it,” she said, a tremble warping her voice, “Why were my siblings dying? Why was my King _suffering?_ I sought answers, but could find none. I had heard of Pitch’s defeat, but never would I have guessed the Guardians had _imprisoned_ him…”

Jack didn’t even notice the cascade of tears flowing down his cheeks, nor the quiet thud of his staff hitting the ground and out of his trembling hands. His knees hit the ground afterward, his wide eyes locked onto the dead soul that had landed mere feet away from him. So like a discarded autumn leaf, yet for what it once held, Jack could not help but compare it to watching a glass bird hitting the floor in its death throes. 

“Why…?” he rasped, not looking at Sorrows, “I don’t…couldn’t any of you find him? Couldn’t you have gotten help to break him out sooner…?”

One would think he was trying to pin blame on Sorrows and her kin. But in his tone, his very countenance, Sorrows could read an honest question. He was not trying to point a guilty finger at her, nor at the rest of the dark spirits. He honestly was wondering just _how_ and _why_ it had gotten this far.

But she could only shake her head.

“The spell the Guardians and the Moon used was both an imprisonment spell, and a cloaking spell,” she said, “It completely caged Pitch, yet the cage was disguised. To a dark spirit, the earth in which he was buried was just that – a pile of dirt, and nothing more. He was hidden from us, and so we could not find him. And even more than that…”

Jack looked up, his eyes bleary from his tears. But he was mildly stunned to see the tight clench of Sorrows’ jaw, and the utter anger and _guilt_ in her eyes.

“Pitch…he wanted to protect us…” she rasped. 

Jack blinked, brows creasing in confusion. “I don’t understand…”

Sorrows gasped a strangled and rueful chuckle. “No, I should imagine you don’t. You would not have known – no one except Pitch and we dark spirits would know.”

She suddenly sighed, shoulders sagging. She shook her head.

“That is not important now though,” she said, eyes now back on Jack, “What is important now is what can be done.”

She fought down her anguish and steeled her resolve, a process Jack could watch happening behind her midnight blue eyes. And it stunned him, just how steely she could be, yet so empathetic. And yet, it was easy to understand just how she became so cold and tired. She had been here so long, and had witnessed many of her brothers’ and sisters’ lives being snuffed out. But she could only mourn so much. She was Sorrows – it was her job to let others mourn, not to allow herself to be taken into the throes of heartbreak and mourning. It was her job to plant the seeds of pain and doubt into people’s mind and hearts. It was her job to _be_ their sorrow. 

“It is painful,” she said sadly, “And over the past fifty years, more and more of my siblings have fallen from this tree, the mirror representation of my King’s heart. And with each child that dies…”

Jack looked up at where Sorrows was looking. He nearly choked in anguish, for there right in the center of the tree’s thick center, was a large, painful crack. Smaller cracks and scars littered the entire tree’s body, the very reflection of the scars and festering wounds of Pitch’s very heart, mind, soul, and body. 

This tree was the very representation of a God’s coming death.

Jack gaped, eyes unable to leave the graveyard of winged bodies. He only then seemed to notice that, along with the butterflies, leaves and small branches also covered the ground. The leaves were as grey and lifeless as the butterflies, and the branches matched their lifeless color, brittle and bare in their skeletal states. 

A graveyard of butterflies, skeletons, and leaves. This was Pitch’s _heart_. 

“Why…?” he gasped.

“Because our King is dying,” Sorrows said, a touch of anger and remorse coloring her voice, “Because the Tsar was foolish enough to believe the world needed no shadow.” 

Jack winced, but said nothing. He could only sit there and shake, hands coming up to clench at thin biceps. His shoulders shook as he stared up at the tree in a whole new, mournful reverence. 

“Where did all of this come from…?” he rasped, “How could I have _not_ heard about this? How could I not know about this? These people, this tree, Pitch himself…how could I _not_ know?”

Sorrows watched Jack, eyes narrowing slightly. 

“Do you want to know now?” she asked. 

Jack looked over at Sorrows, eyes wide and brows creased, his mouth pulled into a thin line. He did not even hesitate.

“Yes,” he said firmly. 

Sorrows’ eyes narrowed further, the star burst of faint gold around her pupils narrowing as they contracted into catlike slits. Jack was disturbingly reminded of Hal’s eerily expressive eyes. It was a daunting reminder for Jack – the dark spirits were not just a class of spirits in their world. They were family, brothers and sisters in every sense of the word. They shared blood with each other, all linking back to Pitch Black. It was a startling realization, to think that Sorrows was in essence Hal and Disliber’s sister, and Pitch’s daughter*. 

Vaguely, Jack wondered what it was like to have such a tight-knit family, to be a part of something so big, yet so close to your heart. Was it frightening? Was it comforting? Or perhaps a combination of both? 

“You will find out soon, Frostling…” Sorrows said suddenly. 

Jack flinched, but made no retaliation. Sorrows obviously had a very natural ability of empathy, and Jack was simply not that well versed in masking his own thoughts. He could mask his expressions pretty well, but there was very little one could do to protect their own thoughts.

“What do I have to do?” he asked.

Sorrows hummed thoughtfully, before her hand suddenly moved up towards her chest. Jack watched her finger the golden necklace about her neck, stroking delicate fingers over the pendent – a locket, Jack realized. She suddenly reached up with both hands behind her neck, hands fiddling with the clasp. She easily unclasped the necklace, and carefully brought it to her front to reattach the clasp. She held the locket itself in her palms delicately, as if she were holding a brittle bird in her hands. 

“You are certain?” she asked seriously, “You are certain you can fight it? That you can conquer the images you once held dear to your heart and over your eyes? Do you truly wish to decimate the image the Guardians and the moon have painted for you? Do you truly wish to see a man who not only hates, but _loves_ so very deeply and dearly?”

She paused suddenly, as if in thought. Her voice softened as she spoke once more, a faint whisper shared only between the flowers of a silent garden, and the mute blades of an owl’s wings cutting through the air.

“Do you want hear him forgive you?” she asked. 

Jack trembled visibly, a chill climbing up his spine, and a throb resonating through his chest. A constricting sensation coiled about his throat, heart, and lungs. The thorns of his doubt and fear only sharpened, their vines tightening. But somehow, he knew – he had to fight through this pain. 

It was so easy to run away from the pain, to forget it even existed and to let it overrun his very heart and soul. It was hard to face it, and to tear down those weeds and thorns. 

And Jack, having learned that running simply got him nowhere, decided that a few scars would be worth the fight. He would rather his heart bleed and weep, than be strangled under the mass of thorny vines he allowed to overrun him. 

“Yes,” he said, his voice shockingly clear and without that choked strain he felt so deep in his chest. 

Sorrows nodded once curtly, her hand clenching around the locket.

“So be it,” she said.

And with a swift yet graceful swing of her arm, she threw the locket up high and up into the tree. Jack faintly heard the locket catch on a swishing branch high up in the canopy, hidden from his eyes, yet undoubtedly there. Sorrows spoke before he could voice question.

“Find it,” she said, “My King’s very pain lies within that locket. It is the very seed of anguish which started this garden, and in my possession, it is contained and dormant. But out of my reach, and back in the arms in which it belongs, it can tear one’s heart to shreds. It will amplify your sorrow with Pitch’s own. And if you can find it, if you can reach it, you will not only have your answers, but prove yourself worthy.”

_‘Worthy…?’_ Jack wondered faintly, _‘Worthy of what though?’_

Beside him, his staff flashed briefly with an eerie blue glow, catching Sorrows’ eye. She glared at it, as if offended by its very presence, before looking back at Jack.

“I will not have the Moon’s toy touch my King’s tree,” she said, “You will bear this pain the hard way, dear Frost.” 

Jack eyed his staff briefly, before turning his gaze back to the tree. He swallowed thickly, the tree daunting and looming, despite its state of imminent death. A wounded animal could be far more dangerous than any wolf or lion, and Jack had very little doubt that this tree could be just as, if not more, dangerous than a wounded animal. 

He stood on shaky legs, hands slowly falling to his sides as he gently set his bag down on the ground. He casted one last look to Sorrows. The owl woman nodded, hands clasping together at her front once more. She could do nothing more for him now. It was all up to Jack now to decide if he could bear the pain of not only his own doubts and dashed delusions, but a small fraction of Pitch’s own anguish and pain. 

He looked back at the tree, and without a single glance back to his staff, he strode towards it, lifted a hand, and placed it on the tree. 

He did not even have a miniscule fraction of a second to draw breath to scream. 

His windpipe completely closed off, his ribs breaking under the relentless weight of a nameless agony, Jack buckled under the pain that suddenly flooded his body and threatened to engulf him. 

And yet, along with that soul-crushing pain and anguish, something else entered his very blood and bones. A presence, warm and tangible and so _familiar_ , it pushed at his back, catching Jack before he could fall utterly. His hands – shaking horribly, the phantom pain of stakes plunging into his palms over and over again – they grasped the tree’s rugged bark. Even as the ghost of a past man’s torture washed over him, the presence at Jack’s back only pushed him forward and up. 

And he climbed. 

Hours, days, _years_ , they all crashed over Jack in a cascade of ice and magma, the very burden of a destroyed heart alongside his own nearly sending him crashing to the ground. In a vague thought, he imagined himself a feeble boy, with the very weight of the world strapped to his back as he attempted to climb an endless, violent waterfall with nothing but his bare hands. 

His breath stolen, he could not even utter a cry as a particularly painful year slammed into his chest, rattling his bones and stuttering his heart. Ages went by before his very eyes, his body succumbing to wounds he could not recall ever receiving. All of it healed, yet there were scars just under his skin, exuberant and thick over his very heart and mind. 

And suddenly, the anguish of innumerable souls – of children of the night, beloved by their King – it grasped Jack by his very flesh, and yanked it away from his bones. A scream lodged in his throat, raw from thousands upon thousands of years of screaming, and it could only bleed as he suffered in silence. 

_Don’t let them in, don’t let them see, be a good father, don’t let them see you hurting for them…!_

Don’t let them see, don’t let them see, _don’t let them in they cannot know I have to protect them it’s the only way they cannot know never never they can never know how much I love-_

Suddenly, Jack was _falling._

And with a startled grunt, he landed painfully on his back, the air, pain, anguish, and his very mind knocked out of his body. He gasped as his throat opened after centuries of being stifled and strangled closed, his lungs springing to life, and his very bones settling back into their rightful places. He lay there trembling, eyes wide, yet unseeing. For the blackness of the void about and around him ate his very vision up. 

Trembling violently, Jack whimpered and, like a newborn lamb, climbed up onto his feet. His arms came around him shakily, his entire being suddenly _cold_. He was so cold, that presence at his back now gone, replaced with a lonesome, and frightening emptiness that he had not even realized was there. He looked away in fright, so very lost and confused. In his mind’s eye, he imagined himself as a tiny boy lost in the frigid and unforgiving forest. So very alone, separated from any he could call friend or family, scared and lost. 

His teeth chattered, knees knocking in their weakened attempt to keep Jack standing. But he could not stand on his own anymore. It felt like he had been thrown through countless, unimaginable years of endless running and fighting. He was so _tired…_

“Poor little Frost…”

Jack froze up, eyes wide in disbelief. Hunched over as he was, he could not see the face of the speaker, but he would be damned if he did not recognize the voice and accent. His neck, the bones strained and brittle, could barely find the strength to lift Jack’s heavy head up to face his companion in the void. 

He almost sobbed, but Pitch only smiled that lethal, venomous smile at Jack. 

“I must say,” he said airily, “I am quite impressed you managed to get this far. It’s not every day that a Guardian decides to forsake his very companions, and the Moon itself as well. I almost feel sorry for you.”

Jack blinked, before his jaw clenched and he raised himself up somewhat straighter. He only continued to tremble though, his very breath fogging with each strangled rasp he drew. 

“I don’t…understand…!” he gasped, his bones creaking, his very teeth aching. 

Pitch chuckled, circling Jack like a taunting shark. 

“Of course you don’t understand!” he laughed, “What could you possibly understand of myself? Or the world for that matter? You are far too childish to comprehend such adult affairs.”

He suddenly stopped in front of Jack, hands folded neatly behind his narrow back. He smirked, reaching a slender hand down to touch a finger to Jack’s chin. He raised Jack’s head up roughly, the touch so frigid and icy, it nearly sent Jack into a state on the floor. 

“Face it, Jack,” Pitch crooned mockingly, “The damage is done. People and spirits are _dying_ , and you cannot fix it…”

He leaned forward slightly, his breath – frigid, cold, the very heart of an ancient iceberg – caressed Jack’s face. The added chill only made Jack whimper painfully, a mass in his chest cracking under the other man’s words, and his arctic touch. 

“And it’s all happening because of _you_ ,” he breathed.

Jack choked, his knees giving out under him. The knobby points of his knees crashed to the ground, shattering like brittle glass. He could not even utter a cry, so great was the pain of his breaking body that he could not even gasp. Like shards of glass, he could only stare at the cracked and shattered fragments of his breaking body. Tears slid down his pale cheeks, seeping into the various cracks forming over his face. Yet they did nothing to soothe the horrible ache in his body, nor the throbbing agony in his chest – his heart. 

He sobbed, lowering his head until he was bent double while Pitch chuckled above him. A rasp of black sand was heard, following by the sharp _ching_ of a familiar scythe forming in ashen grey hands. 

“Accept it, Jack,” Pitch said levelly, yet with mirth, “You have not only destroyed me, but any chance of _anyone_ ever forgiving you…”

He raised the scythe up above his head, his grin wide and manic. 

“Including myself.”

Jack said nothing, his body trembling, shards of his very body falling to the ground to join the other fragments. And yet, his heart still stung, breaking clear down the middle at the Boogeyman’s words. The anguish of such loss, of such exhaustion and hopelessness – it ate at Jack until he was not but a shell with a bleeding, dying heart. 

_‘I deserve this…’_ he thought painfully, _‘I deserve this pain. I deserve Pitch’s hate. I deserve…’_

He paused, the blur of his tears clearing somewhat from his eyes. He stared at a large shard of his body on the floor. Confusion suddenly shot through him as he stared at the mirror-like shard.

For reflected upon its surface, standing above him with a scythe ready to take his life, was not Pitch Black, but _himself._

Eyes wide, Jack stared at the fragment, then slid his eyes up slightly to catch the feet and drag of the other man’s cloak. He stood right here in front of him, and yet, reflected in Jack’s very being…

Suddenly, Jack _understood._

“You’re not Pitch…” he rasped. 

Above him, the false Pitch froze, hands tightening around the scythe over his head. Below him, Jack looked up at the imposter, the cracks and fissures over his body ceasing their expanding crawl over his body. 

“You’re _not Pitch_ ,” he rasped again. 

Strength returned to him, and that warm, healing, _loving_ presence from behind was suddenly surrounding him once more. It fell over Jack like a cloak, its gold touch and gossamer sheer healing his broken body and mending his heart. His mind was his own once more, and a warmth settled in his blood and bone. It shielded his heart, mind, body, and very soul, and it was so very alive. 

“You are not _PITCH!_ ” he shouted. 

The imposter gasped, the cracks once on Jack’s form suddenly appearing on the false shade. He cried out and roared as his very body – his disguise – broke and flaked off of him like a lizard’s skin. The scythe dissolved, not into black sand, but into powdery white snow. The imposter clawed at himself, trying desperately to retain its guise, only to end in failure. 

And Jack could only watch in minute horror, as the form slowly broke away, and revealed to him a flawed mirror image of himself. 

The Jack before him trembled, hissing and rasping angrily like an animal. He looked just like Jack did not even a week ago – clad in a blue frosted hoodie and brown pants, pale as white snow. All around his frail body, winding around him like ravenous snakes, were thorny vines. They crept out from under his skin and clothes, linked to his very core like parasites. And his eyes…they were _white._

_‘I once only saw in black and white…’_ Jack thought almost dazedly, _‘And it made me blind…’_

“You’re not Pitch,” Jack said breathlessly, “But you’re also not me. Not anymore.”

The other Jack snarled, eyes wide and wild in his desperation to hold onto something that no longer even existed. 

“No!” it shouted, its voice oddly warped and manic, “No! You can’t do this! You can’t! I’m all we ever believed in! _They_ are all we ever believed in…!”

Jack shook his head. “No, they’re _not._ We _thought_ they believed in us, and in turn gave us something we thought we wanted. But it’s not what it looks like! The Guardians _lied_ , and I will _not_ live in a lie!”

“But it’s all we have…!” the other Jack gasped, clutching at trembling arms, the vines and thorns about his body shuddering, “We’re never going to have the real thing – a family, friends, people we love…! We’re not meant for it! M-maybe if we try harder, they can…!”

The other started to crack, breaking under the stronger, clear-eyed Jack before it. The vines he sprouted wavered and shriveled in their death throes, no longer able to hide within their host’s heart and feed off his lies. This Jack, Jack’s very own delusions and lies, was finally dying. 

This other Jack, the one that was exactly like how he once was, no longer had a purpose in life. Jack himself no longer believed in the lies he was fed, or the ones he even told himself. This other, past version of him, tangled in the tendrils of anguish and pain he once refused to believe, it was no longer a person. It was only a parasite now, trying to claw and beat his doubts down in a last desperate attempt to keep things black and white. 

All it could do now was feebly try to lie and smile. All it was good for now was lies. And all it wanted was not the truth, but pretty little lies it could live by, and ignore what was right in front of it. 

Jack shook his head, his entire resolve firm and unmovable. He was stronger than this other version of himself. He had grown so much over the course of a week. And he was _stronger_ than this unstable, glass lie. 

“No,” he said firmly, his back straight, “ _You_ are no longer needed. _You_ are a lie. And I will _never_ live under the influence of lies again. Which means, _you_ no longer exist…”

Jack clenched his fists at his sides – he did not even question the sudden appearance of Pitch’s staff in his right hand. 

And with a voice as powerful as a child’s belief, and the strength of an adult’s will, he said,

“I don’t believe in you anymore.” 

And his past, his very insecurities, doubts, confusion, and lies _shattered_. 

In an ear-splitting _crack_ , his past self completely shattered before his very eyes, the vines writhing as their anchor and soil was destroyed. With a scream, the lie dissolved into dust, the vines shriveling into nothingness. The ashes of his past, of his delusions and empty hopes, were swept away. 

And below his feet, the ground came to life. 

Gone now were the weeds and strangling thorns around his heart, and finally it was allowed to bloom. What was once a void now suddenly became something so much _more_. 

Directly under his feet, Jack watched in shock as a wellspring of water trickled out of the ground under his feet, and spread out into the endless void in a rush of cool water. As its reach disappeared into the distance, the water froze and solidified into smooth, mirror-like ice. The ice lit up in a dazzling blue, its depth somehow deepening. Creatures not unlike whales and fish glided serenely under the ice, their white silhouettes dazzling and eerie. 

Jack gasped as the ice cracked somewhat in various places. But instead of breaking, the ice merely opened, and out sprung various white flowers with tightly closed buds. More ice sprung from the surface, reaching up high before blooming at the top to form frozen, fountain-like trees and formations. 

The flowers suddenly trembled, and before Jack’s eyes, they bloomed. Their petals, not unlike the elegantly sharpened spikes of a snowflake, stretched out, their glowing centers releasing hundreds of glowing blue balls – like large powder puffs of pollen, or perhaps a hoard of lazily drifting blue and white fireflies, they floated into the air and up into the endless black sky. There, they stopped, yet remained mobile, casting the inky blackness into a form of a fantastic, moonless night sky. 

Jack stared in awe, unable to comprehend that everything he was looking at was completely and entirely of his own power. That what he was seeing now was his own heart and soul now free of the parasitic weed he had allowed to fester and roam free. 

How could he had let something so toxic taint such beauty…?

“Sometimes, it is just easier to hide and bury that which is precious to us.”

Jack gasped, freezing up. He suddenly became aware of the hand on his shoulder, and another around the hand he had on the staff. He knew this touch – he had confronted it not even a minute ago. And yet…it was _different_.

The hand over his own and his shoulder was not cold or frigid. It was _warm_ and _alive_. And that scent…

A burning forest doused in rain. He knew who the man standing behind him was.

And Jack was _not afraid_ of him. 

Cautiously, as if to truly prove to himself that Pitch was there, Jack leaned back slightly until the back of his head touched the Bogeyman’s chest. Turning his head ever so slightly – just enough to adjust, but not enough to truly see – he clenched his jaw, and listened. 

_Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump._

The sound of that steady, thunderous heart nearly sent Jack reeling. And behind him, Pitch chuckled.

“You did wonderfully, Jack,” he said softly, his hand gently squeezing the other’s shoulder. 

Jack was unable to just listen anymore. With a steeled and cautious resolve, he turned away and looked up. His breath caught.

Pitch looked down at Jack calmly, his dark lips quirked in the faintest smile, and his eclipse eyes alight with a faint gold glow. He was completely whole and unharmed, not a single sign of his weakened and damaged state apparent. He was not a ghost, nor was he some figment of Jack’s imagination. 

Pitch was _here_ , and he was _alive_. 

Heat burst behind Jack’s eyes, mouth hanging open in a disbelieving gape. But Pitch was not the least bit deterred by Jack’s staring or disbelief. He only cocked his head slightly, as if in question, his very expression completely unlike the Boogeyman Jack thought he knew. 

This man was not just the Boogeyman or Nightmare King. Right now, the mask of the Boogeyman was gone, and underneath was a man who did not hate, but _loved_. 

Suddenly faced with such warmth, Jack felt as if he would melt. The tears rushing from his eyes might as well have been the melted ice of the image he once conjured of a malicious man in his mind. And now faced with the sunlight and shadow-cloaked man, Jack could only say one thing.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped. 

His hands suddenly had minds of their own, as he suddenly dropped Pitch’s staff without a single care, and threw his arms around the shade. He buried his face in the other’s chest, listening to that steady drum behind overcast skin and narrow bone. A sharp pain of regret and his own anguish crashed into him, and Jack suddenly couldn’t _stop._

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so _sorry…!_ ” he sobbed, eyes screwing shut in shame, “I’m so sorry! I never wanted to hurt anyone, I just…! I don’t even know anymore! I’m just _so sorry…!_ ” 

Pitch said nothing, and Jack could not – _would not_ – look to see his expression. He was too ashamed, too frightened of what Pitch could say. But even more than that, Jack knew Pitch would _never_ say words like the imposter. He somehow just _knew_ that Pitch was not angry or resentful of Jack. And this oddly frightened Jack, this lack of animosity from a man he had helped to utterly break and sentence to a slow and painful death. He had been the one to help the Guardians decimate Pitch, and by association, hundreds of other spirits were now suffering, and even dying. Including Pitch’s own children…

He gasped as he felt the other’s arms slowly wrap around him, securing the frost sprite in a firm yet yielding embrace. Thin fingers carded through his white hair, and he felt the other shift slightly as he leaned down to speak to Jack.

“You have no need to apologize, Jack,” Pitch said, “I was never angry at you. I am only saddened that all this had to happen…” 

Jack winced, his fingers clutching at the velvet-like fabric of Pitch’s cloak. But he honestly had to agree with Pitch. If ever he were to have such a deep-seated regret in his whole life, it was this. If he could go back in time and undo everything that had happened, he would trade his very life to do so. 

But Time was not so kind. And Jack knew it. And it is likely even Pitch knew it. 

“There is no need to forgive, Jack. But I feel you need to hear it,” Pitch said.

His hands suddenly came around to cup Jack’s face, tilting his head back and out of its hiding place against Pitch’s chest. Jack sobbed as he gazed up at the shade, unable to look away, despite his shameful urge to hide from this warm and dark creature he never knew even existed. A grey thumb stroked away a stray tear from his cheek, and Pitch smiled.

“I forgive you, Jack,” he said softly, yet firmly, “You need not dwell on shame or guilt. I never once blamed you. And if for a moment I did, I completely and utterly _forgive_ you.” 

One would not think forgiveness would be painful. But to Jack, it was by far the most painful, yet relieving feeling in the world. It shot through his heart like an arrow aflame, burning his blood yet cleansing his body of the guilt and shame. The pain of forgiveness, of feeling so unworthy of it yet so ready and willing to receive it.

Jack crumbled, his entire being engulfed in relief and agony. But he somehow managed a watery smile, his eyes flooding anew.

“Thank you…” he rasped. 

Pitch chuckled lowly, allowing the younger spirit to embrace him once more. He smiled as he held the sprite tightly, nearly curling over the winter spirit like a protective shield. But his smile soon faded, his lips now resting in a mournful downturn. He sighed.

“This is not the end, child,” he said regretfully, “Sadly, this is not nearly over.”

Jack blinked, pulling away to look up at Pitch in confusion. The shade sighed, hands firmly grasping Jack’s shoulders. 

“Jack, there is much you need to know, but that I cannot explain,” he said carefully, “But you deserve to know the truth of these matters. But unfortunately, there is one more thing holding you back.”

Jack blinked, confused. “What is it?”

Pitch’s brows creased, jaw tightening. As if he were on the verge of saying something, but there was a proverbial gun at his temple, and he simply could not risk speaking. So instead of speaking, he eyed the staff at their feet.

“I sadly cannot tell you what it is…” he said. He suddenly released one of Jack’s shoulders and waved his hand in a deft gesture. The staff at their feet shuddered, before it rose up into its upright vertical position, and Pitch wrapped his fingers around it and brought it between them.

“But I will tell you this,” he continued seriously, “Many have lied to you, Jack. Including the Moon. But there is one lie that you do not yet realize, and it is what is keeping you from truly being who and what you were born to be…”

He reached over to Jack’s hands with his other hand. Taking them, he brought them up to wrap around the staff, before settling his slender hands over Jack’s own. 

“It is only you who can break this last chain, Jack,” he said with a sad smile, “I cannot break it for you. But I have faith in you, Jack. I know you will find out the truth very soon. And I know you will make things right.”

He squeezed Jack’s hands over the staff, his gaze on the sprite unrelenting, captivating in its intensity. 

“You have far to go still, but know this, Jack – you are _never_ alone,” he said emphatically, “You have allies, friends, and should all work out, you will have your family. This, I swear to you.”

Jack swallowed, eyes wide in awe and uncertainty. Just with how vague Pitch was being, he knew there was more to the tangled web than he truly knew. And if Pitch, even if he wasn’t the actual, physical Pitch, could not tell him what it was, Jack knew it was all up to him now. 

But unlike before, he was no longer alone. He somehow just knew that Pitch was telling the truth and upholding a promise to him. He had faith in Jack, and he believed everything was going to be fine. 

Jack clenched his hands around the staff. “But…the others…the other dark spirits that are…”

Pitch’s eyes lowered, his lips twitching. His shoulders fell ever so slightly, yet there was a strength about him that refused to have the Boogeyman looking vulnerable. 

“I know,” he said softly, before looking back up at Jack ruefully, “But what’s done is done. It is a sad fact of life, but it is a fact. The dead do not come back.”

Jack flinched, eyes lowering. The dead do not come back. Not even spirits could come back once they die. And such truths were more painful than any lie. 

“I’m sor-”

“No,” Pitch said firmly, startling Jack into looking back up at him. Seeing the startled expression, Pitch’s determined frown melted away, and his hand left the staff to reach up and cup the younger spirit’s cheek. 

“No more apologizing,” he said firmly, “No more regrets, and no more ‘what if’s’. It does not matter now, and the past cannot be changed. All you can do now is ensure the future of those who are still alive.”

Pitch squeezed Jack’s hands over the staff in emphasis. “You are _not_ powerless, nor are you without help. You are so much stronger than you think, Jack, and it is that strength that will guide you and ensure no more will perish in this world. You must simply keep looking forward, never flinch, never look away…”

He suddenly smiled wistfully. “Never close your eyes, and never apologize.” 

Stunned, Jack released a startled laugh at the words Hal had once spoken to Jack. The last few parting words of Samhain, passed down to the young Homunculus in his death. And perhaps it was Pitch who had given Samhain these parting words at one time. 

“Everything will be alright, Jack,” Pitch said softly, “Keep looking for answers, for surely that is what this world needs to heal.” 

He suddenly frowned in warning. “But be warned, there will always be those who will want to stop you, who simply do not understand, and will not even want to understand. And so I urge you, child. _Do not_ trust anyone who finds refuge under the light of the Moon. For they surely will only lie and steal you away all over again.”

Jack nodded slowly once, before he suddenly frowned.

“Again?” he asked, “What do you mean?”

Pitch only smiled sadly though and gave no outward answer. Instead, he released Jack’s face and hands, and stepped back.

“The staff is now yours, Jack,” he said, “Use it wisely, and it will protect and aid you in whatever you may need.’’

His smile widened slightly, his gold and silver eyes reflecting _pride_. 

“You will find your answers soon, but for now, I wish you luck…” he said, “You will be fine, Jack…”

Jack opened his mouth to voice his further confusion, but no sound escaped. The world of ice and darkness and light around him suddenly seemed to dissolve into wisps of smoke, and the ground under his feet suddenly vanished. He gasped as he was plunged into darkness, falling into an abyss with no end…

And then, he woke up. 

Eyes shooting open with a gasp, Jack lay there panting in a shocked and stunned stupor. He blinked wide eyes dazedly, his form trembling. He blinked to clear the haze from his eyes, and once his vision came into focus, he finally found where he was. And despite his obviously stunned resolve, he could not help but feel awe. 

He could only deduce he was now lying on the obsidian altar under the tree. And yet, he was stunned to see that, looking up under it, the tree was completely and utterly hollow. Down through its underside, and straight up through the mass of the tree itself, Jack could see the thick canopy of black leaves and twinkling gossamer butterflies. 

A moonless night sky of golden stars…

“You are back.”

Jack gasped, sitting upright swiftly, and nearly reeling from dizziness. Beside him, Sorrows smiled slightly and laid a hand on his shoulder to steady him. Once the dizziness passed, and Jack was able to focus, he looked up at Sorrows dazedly.

“What… just happened?” he asked. 

“You found it,” Sorrows said simply, “And then you conquered the thorns and vines around your heart.”

She nodded down to Jack’s lap, and he looked down. His fist lay clenched in his lap, and he felt something hard and warm in his palm. Slowly, he opened his hand…

And found the locket Sorrows once wore in his palm. 

And it all came rushing back to him. The climb, the fall – both into his mind and from the very top of the tree. And the dream…?

No, not a dream. It was _not_ a dream.

“Your heart is now free, dear Frostling,” Sorrows said, her dark lips pulling into a dazzling and gentle smile, “You have far to go, but you are now free to break the last chain preventing you from knowing the truth.” 

Jack blinked owlishly, staring down at the locket in his hand. And despite it all, he could not focus on anything except the faint parting words he heard Pitch whisper to him as he was broken from his trance.

Tears came to his eyes again, but no anguish was present. Despite the tears, he smiled as he remembered the shade’s last parting words.

_“I believe in you.”_

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes. 
> 
> 1.) Joyce has fairly recently made a canon statement for Jack Frost - apparently he befriended many forest mice during his life as a spirit, and they were the ones who had made him his more modern clothes! Check out KSclaw's Instagram for an image of this canon depicted in an amazing inktober image! 
> 
> 2.) The eyes of the owl here are inspired by an actual owl with a rare optical anomaly. Look up 'Zeus the star eyed owl', or go onto the website, boredpanda, and read about the starry eye rescue owl! Seriously, his eyes are so EERIE but also very beautiful. You can find pics of him on google as well. 
> 
> 3.) Fun fact! Night Gladiolus only bloom at night, and most commonly seen as pale yellow/green flowers with six pointed petals that seem to form a star. Here, they are the dark spirits' patron flower - much like a flower may be the symbol of a country. Parts of this plant are poisonous and can cause skin irritations and allergic reactions. And part of its name, 'Gladiolus' is Latin for 'sword'. The more you know! 
> 
> 4.) Though I have not yet made a profile image of her, I HAVE drawn and colored her outfit! You can find the image on my DeviantART page (my user name is Sumi-Sprite), under the name 'Fashion Model - Lady Sorrows'. I'd post a link, but as many of you know, this site does not take well to links anymore. 8T Manikin used in the pic was commissioned!
> 
> 5.) From about mid-thigh down, Sorrows' legs become the feathered and thick talon clawed feet/legs of an owl. But above that, she has a human anatomy. However, she does not have tail-feathers like Tooth or other harpy or avian hybrid entities. 
> 
> 6.) In religious lore, Lilith has MANY variations of her story and origin. Some versions say she is a demon, a fallen angel, or was once a human woman condemned and went into death's embrace pure and untouched. In contrast, she is said to have mothered bastard children of fallen angels, human men, and demons. Supposedly she is a dark entity that snatches children and torments mothers and men alike, while other stories may depict her as a hellish creature with owl-like traits that haunts wooded forests and snatches up those lost in her forests. A very common story is that she was the first wife of Adam but was damned and shunned because she refused to submit to him. I have combined various traits and aspects of the various stories into Sorrows, most noticeably, the owl concepts and traits. 
> 
> 7.) Just to clarify, not all of Pitch's wards are considered his children. Sorrows and Samhain were his first two creations, and both were considered his eldest and most powerful. Back in their times, he referred to Sorrows and Samhain as his brother and sister. Everyone after them are his children. Jack of course does not know this yet.
> 
> ~S~


	21. I Got No Strings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited by the lovely **The Fallen Angel of Pain** of FF.net!
> 
> Enjoy folks!
> 
> ~S~

It is often speculated that when a man loses faith in his God, he loses faith in himself, humanity, and the world. To many, a God is what the Earth is to the sun – it is their ocean, their sky, the whole world. And when all faith is lost, that ocean, that sky, that whole world, completely and utterly vanishes. They are left without an anchor, without that stability and sense of self. There is simply nothing left of their world. Nothing but the vast expanse of the unknown, of a universe that man has never once looked at because they only had eyes for their God, their world. Men often lose themselves to this abyss, never to be seen as they once were ever again. Some become one with that vast nothingness, and become nothing themselves.

And then there are those very few men who turn and look at that unknown. But they do not think ‘unknown’ when they see it. These men see the endless blackness of nothing, and think, ‘possibilities’. 

In this case alone, sometimes it is worth losing faith in a God. Because then you are free to see so much _more_ than just a sky, a sea, or a forest. Sometimes these lucky few can see a sky within the sea, a forest above the sky, or an ocean of wood and foliage. Sometimes they see so much _more_ , and get to experience more. Sometimes the loss of one’s faith in a God is the loss of a chain, the loss of a blindfold. Sometimes, it’s worth being free, and to have faith in the unknown, and in yourself. 

And it is such misfortune that North, despite his wonder and awe-filled gaze upon the world and possibility itself, cannot see such things. It was simply his luck that, as his faith in his Moon began to dwindle, he was starting to become one of those men who were steadily becoming more and more lost in the void of nothingness. And with time, he knew he would become one with it, and become nothing itself. 

A fitting end, he thought, for one whose very existence depended on others’ faith in him. 

The irony was laughable. But he did not laugh. No, he simply had no energy left to do much other than leaning hunched over his workbench and staring at the partially carved pieces of unfinished toys. A crystal flask, half empty of its amber liquid, sat in an almost scrutinizing loom by North’s right hand. His hand twitched, as if about to reach for the decanter, but it was quickly aborted in the same instance. He had not even the energy to take another long draught. It seemed his mood was only lowered by the alcohol, the spicy liquid acting as a paralyzing neurotoxin, rather than the inebriating tonic that it was supposed to be. 

North bit his chapped lip, brows furrowing in a confused and lost frown. The window behind him was blocked out by thick drapes, something he would usually never do, especially at night. But the darkness was a welcoming veil. It was a cloak, a mask, the blanket a child hides under when he hears something frightening at night. 

_If I hide and close my eyes, it does not exist._

Ah, the powerful, yet fleeting, logic of a child. Such folly often made North smile, for there was nothing more powerful than a child’s belief. If the child denied the existence of something foul, closed his eyes, and hid from it, then the presence had no choice but to vanish. It was the way of spirits. If one believed hard enough, a spirit would be born, or a spirit would vanish. 

So then why was the Moon still there, he wondered. _Why do I still feel him looming over me, peering in through my window when I am pretending he is not truly there?_

Why was he still _here?_

_‘You are not there…’_ he thought adamantly, yet weakly, _‘You are not at my window. You are not looking for me. You are not here…’_

The Moon did not leave. Its silvery blue glow continued to try and peer into the room through the crack of the drapes. It could not fully see inside, but the Moon knew North was there. It knew where its favorite Guardian was. 

_All children know where their favorite toy is. It is always in the same place the child left it – right on the shelf where it belongs, where no one else can touch it._

North screwed his eyes shut, hands reaching up to card into his white hair. His palms pressed over his ears, as if trying to block out the sound of his own erratic thoughts. Thoughts he never even knew he could have, thoughts that mocked, taunted and hissed at him like irritated animals. Thoughts that snapped at his heels as he ran from them. Thoughts that were gaining on him – and they were hungry for his sanity. 

“You can’t run from them, North…” a young, feminine voice said to him. “They always catch you, like they did me.”

North’s eyes only tightened though, refusing to open or to look up at the ghost before him – because that’s all she was. Just a ghost, an echo of his past. She was nothing but a phantasmal whisper in his ear.

_She does not exist anymore. She will be gone if you don’t look. Don’t acknowledge her._

The ghost placed a small hand on his hunched shoulders. But that did not mean she was real. It was nothing. That cold touch was nothing, merely the chill of the room getting to him. It wasn’t real.

“You can deny all you want.” she sighed sadly, “But you can’t ignore what is right before your eyes. You can’t always run.”

“Then what do I do?” he rasped.

_NO! Don’t talk to her, she does not exist anymore! She won’t go away unless you ignore her!_

North nearly flinched. The ghost did not relent though.

“You’re scared,” she said, “And that’s okay, North. But hiding isn’t going to solve anything, and you know it.” 

_But it’s safer…_

“Is it really though?”

_Yes! Yes, it is! What else can I do?!_

“You can face that which you fear.”

_NO! Never, I can’t face it! I can never face my fears. To face my fears is to…_

“Is to grow up…” North rasped shakily, his hands, his entire body, trembling. 

Beside him, his ghost said nothing, and did nothing. Instead, she withdrew her hand – for he could not feel it upon his shoulder anymore – and sighed. 

“Do you know what happens when boys refuse to grow up?” she asked.

North made to shake his head, but was startled to find he could not. He frowned – or at least tried to – and tried to open his eyes. His eyelids refused to move though, his sight blackened and blind. Sensation then – or rather, a lack of sensation. His sense of feeling was utterly gone, his entire body turned to stone.

Or perhaps, turned to wood. 

Against his will, his eyes shot open, and his head was forced to turn with a creak to face his ghost. He would have gasped in shock and horror if he could, but every inch of his body was no longer his to obey. Internally though, he could not help but scream in agony and despair. 

Katherine stared back at North impassively, hands hanging limp at her side, and expression unreadable. She looked exactly as he last remembered her – small, young, yet with an unfathomable amount of intelligence in her eyes. There was nothing wrong with her; she resembled not a haunting, keening ghost one would expect. But North could have handled that. No, what he could not handle was the one thing that horrified every Guardian.

She was grown up. Katherine was no longer a child, but a young adult. 

And when she spoke, that familiar, childishly high tone of a small girl was gone. And replaced with the soft, feminine tone of a woman. 

“They become toys,” she said. 

With a lurch, North’s body was yanked back. His useless neck cracked as his wooden head was thrown forward from the violent tug. He would have cried out in shock as he suddenly stopped and landed not on his back, but on his front. His wooden forehead collided violently with a polished wood floor, his empty cranium ringing with splintered chips and startled termites.

He made as if to groan, but his voice was completely and utterly useless – stolen from his carved throat. He would have gasped as he was raised up by sharp points at his legs, feet, hands, and arms. Weightless, and raised onto his useless wooden feet, his eyes burned as a bright light overwhelmed them. Unable to blink, his vision only just adjusted and he was able to take in where he was.

No longer was North in his Workshop, or anywhere familiar to him. But he recognized just what place he was in.

He stood upon a stage, red velvet curtains just barely catching on the far edges of his eyes. Before him, an uncountable number of theater chairs lined up in rows to face him. And each and every one of them was filled. 

North wanted to gasp and flee, but his body was not but a wooden toy on strings – a puppet. He could not even muster the will to shudder, his cue-ball eyes locked forever upon the numerous eyes upon him. 

The spirits – dark, light, element, and everything in between – made no sound or movement, their gazes piercing and scrutinizing North without mercy. Like nails being hammered or drilled into his wooden body, the helpless Guardian could not fight back, or look away. 

_“Dance, dance, dance. Dance Macabre,”_ the audience chanted.

And right on cue, North’s string-bound limbs began to move. His hands were forcibly raised, and out of the corners of his eyes, he caught the familiar glint of his sabers in each hand. The unseen master of the strings had North turn in a sluggish, uncoordinated spin to face the right side of the stage. 

He mentally gasped, nearly nose to nose with the very much alive, free of strings, form of Disliber. The Devil snarled, his putrid breath curling the paint of North’s wooden face. Disliber opened his mouth, fur bristling, as he got ready to attack. But North – or rather, the puppeteer – moved faster. 

It took only one swing, and Disliber choked, clutching his gut. Shuddering, the Devil coughed, his black blood staining the floor as North was made to jump a few paces back. North watched, horrified, as Disliber collapsed, clutching his cut open gut in trembling arms. His red eyes rolled back, and he fell forward, dead and flanked by an expanding pool of his blood. 

North would have gaped and possibly gone to the Devil’s aid, but he had no time to even feel shocked at his uncontrollable actions. He was spun again, this time to face a spirit he had only ever met once. 

Sorrows gasped, but had no time to react otherwise. North’s arm was forced up and then down in a wide arch, slicing clean through one of her wings. The winged woman shrieked, crumbling to her knees in agony. She trembled violently, her blood, the same color as Disliber’s, spouting from the stump of her wing upon her back. North’s arm was raised again, this time with the blade pointed downwards. His puppeteer dropped his arm, plunging the blade through Sorrows’ bowed head with a crack. 

North spun back to face the crowd, arms held out in a proud display of blood-spattered swords and stained wood. No applause was heard though, and instead, all he could hear was chanting.

_“Dance, dance, dance. Dance Macabre.”_

North was made to bow once shallowly, before turning to his left. His eyes would have widened in horrified anticipation if they could.

‘No…!’ he wanted to scream, to shout, but he no longer had the ability to control his own body. And he would sooner run away screaming than attack the two spirits that stood before him.

Samhain looked ready to bolt, his eyes – so much like Hal’s – wide yet full of a furious fire. His dark lips were pulled into a tight black line, his arms held tight around the young, scared, and helpless Homunculus in his arms. Hal visibly _trembled_ , his arms locked tight around Samhain’s neck, yet his eyes could not look away from the murderous Guardian. 

_‘No, no, no…!’_ North thought, knowing exactly what was to come next, _‘Please, no, not them…!’_

His mental pleading went unheard. His puppeteer caught Samhain’s slight movement in preparation to run. But once more, the unknown master of North’s strings was faster. 

North did not even have to move from his spot. When Samhain’s back was to him for but a split second, his arm was raised, and his blade was thrown straight for the man’s back. 

North once prided himself on his impeccable aim when it came to his swords. His former Cossack self would have been proud – or perhaps, not so much in this instance. Not when the blade of his sword planted itself stiffly and perfectly into Samhain’s back. The red-head lurched, back arching inward stiffly. His mouth gaped open in a strangled gasp, choked and caught in a spurt of black blood. He tripped over his own feet, and Hal was thrown from his arms as he fell forward with a dull thud upon the stage. 

The former Monarch coughed, sharp-nailed fingers curling and scraping against the stage, leaving deep gouges in the polished wood. But the puppeteer was not done.

With a few pulls of the strings, North marched stiffly towards the fallen spirit and his apprentice. Hal had scrambled to Samhain’s side, shaking and uncertain of what to do. He gasped, eyes swimming in amber, as North stomped beside the dying spirit. He grabbed the sword’s hilt, but was stopped as two oversized claws grabbed his hands over the hilt.

North’s head was pulled up to look at his assailant. Hal snarled, so very scared, yet unwilling to leave his beloved master at the mercy of the deranged swordsman. 

North’s body paused, as if his manipulator did not know entirely what to do. But then his puppeteer seemed to realize North had two swords. 

With a simple turn of the wrist, North’s other sword shot out to clip the hilt against Hal’s face. The Homunculus yelped, the decorative hilt clipping his mouth and splitting his lip up the middle. His grip lost on North’s hand, the Russian easily kicked the young spirit away in an injured pile. 

North turned to look back at Samhain, the spirit’s life now faint, just on the edge of extinguishing entirely. Gripping his other sword’s hilt, he yanked it out of Samhain’s body.

“ACK…!” Samhain choked weakly, his body tensing only briefly, before falling limp once more. 

He was still alive though, if barely. And that was unacceptable to North’s puppeteer. His heavy wooden foot planted itself over Samhain’s back, over his wound. The Fall Herald didn’t even have the strength to protest in any way, his vision swimming and senses all but lost. North sheathed one sword and bent stiffly, reaching down to grab the smaller man’s long red hair. He yanked it back, pulling Samhain’s head up and back in a painful arch. He coughed weakly, his own blood staining his porcelain face. 

Pulling up more to get a better angle, North placed the blade of his remaining sword against Samhain’s throat. The strings at his limbs glinted and trembled, glistening eerily, as if in glee. North would have felt sick if he had a stomach.

_‘No, stop! Please, you cannot do this!’_ he thought.

His puppeteer ignored him, or perhaps he could not hear North. And in one swift motion of practiced ease – practiced ease North was sick to realize he learned as a thief and Cossack – he sliced without trouble through Samhain’s neck, and took his head off his shoulders. His headless body fell forward, lifeless. And North dropped the dead man’s head without care. 

_And then there was one._

So consumed by his horror and shock, North did not even register his feet moving his body towards the terrified Homunculus huddled against the stage wall. His upper lip was split clear up to the base of his nose, bloody and red. Somewhere in North’s mind, he would be reminded of the odd boy Samhain and Pitch had been following before Hal had been born. 

The audience chanted at his back as he approached the Homunculus.

_“Dance, dance, dance…”_

North stood before Hal, covered in the blood of his master and family. North’s head was cocked to one side, as if curious. Internally, North was _screaming._

_‘NO! Please, do not hurt him! You cannot do this! He is just a child! Don’t hurt him! PLEASE!’_ he thought, frantic and pleading to whatever demonic force was controlling his bloodstained limbs. 

A pause.

And then he heard a voice.

_“But I’m not hurting him,”_ it said, its voice familiar yet in no way recognizable. _“You are!”_

Without further warning, North dropped his remaining sword, and wrapped both beefy hands around Hal’s neck. The Homunculus choked on a cry, mouth open in a soundless scream. His clawed hands clutched at North’s wrists, trying to pry them off his thin neck. But it was no use. He was just a boy, with no strength or power to push away the Guardian. He was helpless, he was going to die _again._

_“Dance, dance, dance…”_

North’s hands tightened mercilessly on Hal’s throat, crushing his windpipe. The thick width of his hand allowed for the sides of his hands to push painfully against fragile collarbones, fracturing them with a slow and painful snap. Hal tried to gasp for breath, his vision blackening around the edges. Amber tears ran down his flushed cheeks, mixing seamlessly with his blood. 

North wanted to scream, to plead, to take back control of his body and release the young spirit from his strangling hold. But he could not. No matter how much he screamed, cursed, pleaded and begged, threatened and snarled, his puppeteer would not relent. In a rush of emotions and fear, North could no longer beg for the other’s life. All he could do now was pray that it would end for Hal soon. 

And with a spastic tightening of his hands, it did. 

A sharp _snap_ was heard, and Hal’s body went limp. His hands fell from North’s wrists, and his eyes rolled back into his head. _Dead._

North heard a sharp ringing in his ears, the echo of what felt like a string being snapped in his head. His wooden hands dropped Hal’s body to the floor, and he was turned to face the audience once more. 

Only, the audience was gone – engulfed in a void of blackness beyond the curtains. They had been swallowed by oblivion, no longer existing entities. But North was not alone.

For at the stage’s center stood a single man clad in white, silver, and gold. His full smile was radiant, a kind curve of soft lips. Thick silvery lashes fanned pleasantly over the high contours of pale cheeks, his blind eyes made even more prominent by slightly quirked brows.

Time cocked his head ever so slightly, his arms crossing loosely just above his abdomen. His sightless eyes were somehow overwhelmingly heavy on North’s wooden body. 

“What a pity,” he said. “I told you to make this good for me, Guardian. But you did not even attempt to fight back against your enemy.”

_‘Enemy?’_ North thought. Was he talking about Pitch? The other dark spirits? 

Time chuckled, a delicate hand coming up to partly cover his laughing mouth coyly. 

“Oh the innocence of a childish mind.” He laughed. “Shame it is such a wasted effort. It has you searching for the monster in all the wrong places. Have you ever bothered to look anywhere besides under the bed or in the closet?” 

_‘Where else is there to look…?’_ North thought confusedly. Where else would a monster be but in a dark, forgotten place like under a bed or in a closet? It is where children shoved old clothes and toys, where they put things they wanted to forget about. They are the places monsters need to be put into so they may be forgotten. So where else would he look?

Time’s smile widened unnaturally, teeth flashing. The hand over his mouth moved to press an index finger against a long canine. 

“How about in the mirror?” He purred, pointed tongue touching the gloved tip of his index finger.

North vaguely felt his puppeteer jerk the strings slightly, as if annoyed, or perhaps curious. But North had no time to contemplate the antics or actions of his manipulator. With a simple twist of strings, he was forced to turn around and face the carnage he caused mere minutes ago.

Except, this was not the image he had recalled from those brief few seconds of horror. The bodies were _different_. 

North did not even have the mental ability to scream internally. All he could do was mentally gape and tremble, eyes wide and disbelieving. 

Bunny’s body lay gutted, his grey and white fur stained with his red blood. His hunter green eyes were clouded and unfocused, infected with Death’s fog. Tooth lay face-down just a small ways off, one of her wings forcibly amputated and thrown carelessly at her side. Her head was cracked open, fragments of her skull and brains matting iridescent feathers. A ways off from her, two piles of grey sand lay in a haphazard heap – one larger, the other small, the size of a head; the remains of Sandy’s body. And against the stage wall…

_‘Jack…!’_ Somehow, North managed a miniscule tremble. 

The frost sprite was limp and propped in an upright slump against the stage wall. His head bowed, North could still somehow see within his own mind the dark blue and black bruises forming large hands along his neck. Lifeless milky white and blue eyes flashed in startling clarity in his mind, their spark and light gone. 

Behind him, Time chuckled again. The click of his heels was ominous, a sharp crack in North’s ears with each step he took. The Russian could pay him no mind though, not when his companions lay dead and brutalized upon the stage floor in a macabre depiction of a bloody pantomime. 

“Such a waste…” He sighed, now standing slightly behind and to North’s side. “Some say that blindness is a relative term, and I am inclined to agree. To a few, I am all-seeing, but to many, I am blind…”

A pause, and North’s wooden flesh could not feel so much as vaguely sense Time’s slim fingers cupping his jaw just behind his stiff beard. His head was forced to look to the side at Time, straining against the malicious strings trying to resist the temporal man’s pull. 

But Time was a powerful entity. His very presence commanded absolute and complete submission in others, if not obedience. His words were of a higher power no one could quite give title or rank to, for he needed no such _mortal_ words. His touch was lethal – kind and cruel, pleasurable and agonizing. His hands broke wills in half, crumbled men and spirit alike, while his very body and power seduced even the holiest and strongest of souls. He was a holy whore. None could resist his body, his voice, his touch, or his command. 

Not even the puppeteer could safeguard his heart from the Angel. To deny Time your heart was to deny your very existence. 

Time smiled and laughed in the face of such attempts of resistance. Or perhaps he laughed at the fact that the resistance was not so much an attempt to stop him, as it was to try and garner his attention. 

North’s wooden body trembled, confusing the Cossack. Was it he himself who was shaking, or his puppeteer? 

Time’s smile quirked to one side, warped and unnaturally wide. A slight peek of his white teeth would have unnerved North, his sharpened canines like the piercing points of a syringe. 

A delicate finger came up to press against Time’s lips.

“Shh…” He hushed, moving his finger away slightly, as if he were now pointing up. “He’s watching you.”

North wanted to blink in confusion, but obviously could not. However, Time was not about to play his game for much longer. Gripping North’s chin tightly enough to splint wood, he pushed his head up until he was facing skywards. 

North finally caught a full profile of his puppeteer, the unseen hand of his fellow Guardians’ demise. 

And the pure fact that he could not scream only made the sight worse. 

The very Moon beamed down at North, dominating the inky blackness that hung above the stage like a failed attempt at a night sky. His strings – the gossamer Moonbeams woven and stretched into threads – seemed to shudder behind the milky white screen of the moon’s face. Behind the screen, a form was seen, a shadowy silhouette of a stout man holding the ends of North’s strings at his fingertips. His face and expression were unseen, hidden by the frosty pane of white, yet North could somehow tell that Manny was anxious. His hands trembled, causing North’s wooden joints to knock and click eerily. 

Suddenly, North’s confusion had utterly vanished – all sense of emotion, all sense of his very self, were obliterated. Whether by shock or the sudden clarity of a half-formed epiphany was unknown. All he knew was that he now embodied silence. He was no longer the Guardian of Wonder. 

He was now just a simple puppet who had his faith in his God snuffed out. 

And the void that his once world floated in swallowed him whole…

 

****

**

~s~S~s~

**

****

 

_Crash!_

North gasped, his throat constricting and collapsing on his very breath. He choked, hands reaching up to clutch at his throat as he struggled to breathe, to _wake up._

His eyes screwed shut tightly for a scant second, before he forced them open once more. The haze of his waking panic began to wane and clear, his throat loosening and opening to once more allow the Guardian to breathe. Unaware was North of his entire body trembling, the arms and neck of his shirt ringed with sweat. His ruddy cheeks were only redder, stained with the saltier waters shed by his once closed eyes. Skin flushed of all color, his silvery beard and hair nearly blended seamlessly into his skin. 

He was _terrified._

And he did not even know _why._

North swallowed thickly, blinking once owlishly. His eyes swerved about the room he was in – his work room. A few large blocks of ice on his workbench now sat partly melted and malformed, the workbench top now soaked by the ice’s water. His decanter lay open on the bench, turned onto its side, and its amber contents mixing and diluting with the melted ice. 

He blinked again, and at first wondered if that crash he had heard had been his decanter falling over. But the crash had been far too loud to have come from the overturned glass container. No glass was seen either. 

North was about to get up and look for what could have possibly caused the crash, but was stopped by the sound of a commotion outside his work room. He could vaguely hear Bunny yelling, his words muffled by the wooden walls and minor distance. He could only imagine that Sandy was also making his own gestures and displeasure known. 

Legs shaky, his knees replaced with warm jelly, North forced himself out of his seat and onto his feet. Vertigo nearly felled him, but he forcibly caught himself with a beefy hand clutching at the edge of his workbench. 

He did not move though, suddenly entranced by the roughly whittled edge of his workbench. His vision blurred, and he somehow could not find the confusion nor the clarity of why he was suddenly shedding tears. All he could focus on was the sudden, gaping void in his heart.

It was as if someone had taken one of his cookie-cutters and painfully punched out a large, jaggedly shaped hole in his chest, where something precious once lay. Something once warm, something he safeguarded with his entire being, never to let it go. Something gifted to him by the Moon himself, something others would envy him for…

But there was no envy. There was only spite, and now, an empty, gaping wound in North’s heart. It bled, red and angry and distressed, now exposed to all the elements of painful emotion, and the disease of festering doubts and spite. It left him reeling. 

He screwed his eyes shut for a second, then forced them open. His vision only partly cleared, North was unaware of the shaking of his hands, and the weak tremble of his knees.

He felt so old now, like the truly ancient being he was. He had never felt so old in his entire life – not even his decline in power during the Nightmare War compared to this soul-deep age. It sprouted and rooted in his bones, fed off his bleeding and wounded heart, and drove thorns into his flesh. He could feel the creeping vines of internal agony climbing up his throat, their leathery and jagged leaves scraping his throat raw, and obscuring his windpipe. His stomach tightened, now a ball of toxic flowers and thorny vines. 

Such a sick, twisted sickness. North had to wonder if the sickness’ mother was nearby, her owl-minions watching him, her eyes piercing his form as she planted seed after seed into his gaping heart. 

He startled suddenly, another kind of vine about his wrist pulsing heatedly and sharply. He looked down at the binding snake, its red eyes flashing ominously, and its coils tightening in time to his own pulse. Warning though it seemed, North knew it was a summons. 

He scrubbed furiously at his eyes with the heels of his hands, the thick appendages still shaking. He paid them no mind though, and without even bothering to check his composure, he lumbered out of his workroom to see what all the fuss was about.

His steps were heavy and thumping against the wooden floors, not unlike his usual lumbering footsteps. Yet to his ears, he sounded like a drunkard staggering back home after an entire night of less than savory ventures. He felt disjointed and adrift, his own home unfamiliar to him. The halls seemed to pulse like the arteries of a weakened heart, his vision just slightly off-kilter. 

North could only ignore it though, as the familiar voices of Bunny, Nature, and – shockingly – Tooth were heard. Urged, he quickened his pace, yet the sensations of wrongness did not lift from him entirely. He squinted as he entered the Globe Room, the brighter lights stinging against his already worn and tired eyes. 

The source of the crashing sound was suddenly made apparent, as Sandy was working to seal up the broken window of the lounge with a wall of his sand. He kept tossing worried glances over his shoulder, and North could see why.

Tooth had vanished hours ago, and the others had had no idea where she had gone. They were frantic, wondering if she had been taken. But it was Nature who quelled their frantic simpering, her temper flaring at the sudden urgency in the disappearance of someone who, to her, was about as useful as a hammer without its head. She had seen the fairy queen leave of course, but did not mention so to the other Guardians. Instead she told them her vine-snake informed her that she had gone to Tooth Palace. The Guardians seemed to calm when she informed them of this, and the nature spirit left it at that. 

But now the fairy queen was back, sat down on one of the lounges with Bunny tending to a few cuts and lacerations she gained from what North could only assume was crashing through the glass of his window. But there was more to her injuries – it appeared as if many patches of her feathers had been ripped away from her body, immaculate cuts and scratches littering exposed skin and trailed by clean welts of blood. Her face was also scratched up, pale as death, and her forehead bruised. She held her arms around herself, trembling and jaw clenching, her brows creased in a confusing mixture of rage and fear. 

Off to the side, Nature stood primly and regally, her gaze locked upon what appeared to be a parchment in her hands. She said nothing to North, nor did she even acknowledge him with a look. 

He was too concerned for his colleagues though to wonder at the cold-shoulder, and lumbered unsteadily to the others.

“Toothy! What has happened?” he rasped, shocked at his own voice. He sounded like he was only just recovering from a bad cold. 

The others looked at North with wide eyes, equally as surprised at the raspy and watery voice. But even more so, they were concerned with North’s appearance. He did not look well. His skin was flushed almost white, the color made only whiter by the dark shadows under his red-rimmed eyes, and feverish cheeks. His hands trembled minutely at his sides, and his once confident posture was now reduced to an exhausted slouch. His beard and hair was a mess, his once baby blue eyes glassy and not entirely focused. 

He looked as if he were making the trek for Death’s door, his entire being reduced to something none of them found the least bit familiar. 

No one was able to voice concern though, as Tooth, with a trembling voice, finally spoke.

“S-Sorrows…!” she rasped, snarling down at the floor. “She has Jack…!”

“What?!” Bunny rasped in disbelief. “How…that _bitch_ attacked you?!” 

Tooth shook her head. “No…her owls…!” 

Bunny swore colorfully and darkly, quickly applying a salve to Tooth’s wounds to staunch the bleeding and relieve any irritation and inflammation. Who knew where that dark spirit’s filthy owls have been? 

North blinked a bit dumbly, momentarily lost. The name registered in his head though soon enough, and the sudden clarity managed to help push away the hazy fog stifling his thoughts. 

“Tooth, you went after Jack?” he asked, “Why? And how?”

“It is not obvious?” Nature suddenly piped in, gliding over towards the Guardians, yet keeping a good distance between her and them.

“Your little fairy used the sprite’s own tooth box to find him,” she said thinly, “As for the ‘why’, I can only speculate she was acting on idiotic impulse.”

“Enough!” Bunny snapped, standing to his full six-foot height. He marched over to Nature to loom threateningly over her, but the nature spirit was not the least bit deterred – nor was she at all impressed. 

“Tooth was fucking _attacked_ by that damned demon…” He snarled, spittle leaping from between his teeth. Nature did not even flinch. “And you didn’t care enough to tell us the truth of where she was. I bet you were hoping Sorrows would kill her.” 

Nature’s unimpressed expression and tone seemed to aggravate the Pooka further. 

“Funny you should say that,” she said in a deadpan, yet spiteful tone. “The entire world is falling apart after you harm Pitch, yet you do not care. Your fairy gets into a minor scuffle with some owls, and I don’t care. I see no debatable comparison, Pooka.” 

She held up a hand to silence the Pooka, his mouth opening to roar obscenities at the earthen spirit. She spoke before he could even feel any outrage at her flippant attitude. 

“That is not important though,” she said, “What _is_ important is Time’s parting gift.”

Before anyone could question her, Nature revealed the envelope that had held the parchment she had been reading. A familiar green seal was stamped onto it, now broken, but its symbol and initials were clear. 

The ominous ‘LJ’ initials were framed by a simply designed balancing scale, each of its counterweights centering them. Eagle wings flanked the curved, circular form of the border, not the least bit obscured by the more errant form of the excess wax. 

North felt himself tense only slightly, eyes flickering down at his feet uncertainly. Sandy and Tooth seemed to withdraw into themselves, while Bunny only pinned his ears back and glared hellfire and brimstone at the envelope, as if willing it to burst into flames. 

It figured though. Time did not stick around too long. Flighty as the man was, he never did anything without purpose, and it made more sense that he came to play messenger boy than to have a conversation with Nature at the time. He always had some sort of plan, some sort of outcome he desired to witness and feed off of. 

Sandy formed various images above his head, meek and a tad anxious. Nature barley paid him any mind, but answered his inquiry all the same.

“The continuation of your trial starts tonight,” she said simply, tucking the envelope into a pocket hidden in the floral pattern of her bodice. 

The Guardians cringed, suddenly made once more aware of their precarious situation. Bunny’s furry fists clenched into trembling balls, his whiskered lips twitching in a strange mixture of a furious tick and the desire to snarl. Beside him, North swallowed thickly, his throat dry. He looked around for any passing Elves carrying refreshments, but only caught a single Elf marching over towards the coffee table in the lounge. It set the plate of cookies on the table, then scampered away with a giggle. North quirked a brow at its retreating back, but paid it no mind once it vanished down a hallway. He turned his attention back to Nature.

“Nature, I know this is not…” He paused to try and find the right words. “Agreeable time. But perhaps Libra can wait?”

Nature scowled. “And why should she?”

North bit his lip, suddenly very uncertain, and very anxious. His hands, now mostly free of their tremors, still continued to give minute shudders every now and again. The wash of hot/cold through his body was making him feel ill. There was a strange, unnamable _thing_ inside of him now. It sat like a lead weight in his gut, and dangled like a wrecking ball from his heart. Cotton and sand stuck to the back of his throat, his tongue swollen and parched. He so desperately wished for a drink, and mildly wondered how no Elves or Yetis were serving anyone anything. He could not seem to focus fully however, so persistent was this unnamed _thing_ in his heart and mind. 

He was missing something. He was _craving_ something. He felt like the drug addict denied his syringes and pills, the alcoholic without his booze. 

What was _happening_ to him…?

“We…there…” He swallowed dryly again, his eyes flickering from Nature, the floor, and back. “Something is wrong…”

Nature said nothing, though her eyes did flicker briefly to the other Guardians. Tooth and Sandy, unseen behind North, were giving the Russian very concerned looks. It was quite obvious North was not well, and something he once held dear and jealously guarded was now missing, or destroyed. There was something _off_ about him now.

Bunny, however, was only glowering at Nature, as if he was in a rather one-sided staring contest. Nature almost scoffed; his ugly, twisted scowl reminded her of children after they threw a tantrum and then proceeded to glare heatedly at their parents until they got their way. Though she supposed it was rather fitting, all things considered. 

But regardless…

Breaking her eyes off of the Guardians, she gracefully swept over to the lounge area. She ignored the fairy queen sat upon one of the chairs, the fairy tensing as the nature herald drew near. She stopped in front of the coffee table, and seemed to look over the selection of cookies on the platter left by the Elf a few minutes ago. Lips tightening somewhat, she reached down and picked up the single gingerbread man.

She did not eat it though, but merely held it in one hand and seemed to study its icing painted smile and candied buttons. She hummed thoughtfully, still looking at the gingerbread man. 

“You do not wish to attend Libra’s summons?” she inquired in an odd tone. She sounded business-like, flat in her words, but her tone was lilted slightly in the proper volume of a polite inquisition. 

North clenched his fists at his sides – whether to calm his shaking, or as a show of indignation, no one was sure. 

“I…believe something may be wrong,” he said.

“Oh? And pray tell, North…” Nature drawled, turning to face the Russian, the gingerbread held carefully in one hand. “What is _wrong_ here?” 

North made as if to speak again, but no sound or word escaped him. His eyes kept shifting about the room, as if he could not hold a singular focus on any one place for more than a few seconds. His fists started to shake, clenched so tight, their numbness prevented North from feeling Sandy’s concerned hand on his arm. 

“I…” North swallowed, but found he could not form proper words. Something was _wrong_ , and that something was here in his Workshop.

And it _frightened_ him. 

Bunny suddenly marched over to Nature, and without an ounce of ceremony, snatched the gingerbread man from her hand. 

“Enough of this shit!” He snapped, pointing the man-shaped cookie at Nature accusingly. “We don’t have to listen to _you_ better than us!”

He threw the cookie onto the floor and crushed its head under one foot. Seething through his teeth, he twisted his foot until the gingerbread man’s head was nothing but crumbs and shattered icing. Once finished assaulting the pastry, he snarled back at Nature, eyes blown into indistinguishable pinpricks. 

“We’re not going back to that bitch’s Court…!” He snarled, a dribble of spit darkening one side of his chin as he seemed to lose all sense of control over his ire. He pointed a retracted claw at Nature, pricking it against her collar. 

“You can just go screw yourself, and tell all those bumbling little _freaks_ to give up and die already! We don’t have to do anything! We didn’t _do_ anything, and you better get it through that thick head of yours that we sure as hell are not going to fix something that should remain broken and dumped in the trash!” 

Behind him, his fellow Guardians could only watch on in stupefied horror, faces blanched in terror. They were speechless, terrified of Nature’s own retribution in the face of such insolence and ire. The Pooka held no such resolve though, his hands shaking in fury. To anyone else, the gesture would be perceived as fear. But Nature was not fooled. No, she very well knew the name of what poison laced the rabbit’s blood, what caused his hands to shake and his eyes to blaze. She knew what his ire had turned into, its once fire now diminished into a toxic pile of ash and soot that stained his mind and polluted his very soul. 

It was in his eyes, the dark stain upon glassy green orbs. It wracked his very limbs, a parasite of the mind that turned words into acid and thoughts into caustic sludge. Evolved from his doubts and anger, born of his inability to believe and to see, his was a resolve conceived of fear.

_Madness…_

It had a funny way of coming from the most human of emotions. Nature almost wanted to laugh.

But she did not. And even more so, she could not. To her, the Pooka was forever lost, having willingly submerged himself in his own madness so as to avoid and hide from the very collapse of their world. It was all too easy, to hide and flee, rather than to face and conquer. 

_‘And this is where you and Jack Frost differ…’_ she thought. 

She shook her head, turning her head down to look past Bunny’s claw and at the floor. Or rather, the crushed gingerbread man. Her obsidian eyes hooded. 

“You will not go willingly.” A statement, no longer a question.

Bunny bore his teeth in what should have been a comical imitation of a snarl. But his buck-teeth and flat molars did not give the impression of a lackluster snarl, not when his very expression could make even the most heinous dark spirit shudder. He loomed over Nature, yanking his paw back to his side in a clenched fist. 

“Go fuck yourself,” he rasped. 

The other Guardians gasped, frozen to their spots in the lounge. Had they not been so stunned, they would have swarmed Bunny to placate him. But the sheer rage and hatred that the Pooka radiated…no, it was not as simple as anger or hate anymore. They could sense it too, the very same thing Nature had foreseen in Bunny since the first trial. His very resolve, once of stone, was now dust. His wall no longer in place, the Pooka had done what any simple-minded rabbit would do in the wild. He fled – _from his very mind._

And it _frightened_ them. 

Nature was not deterred though. And instead of acknowledging the Pooka any further, she looked back up at them all with a flat expression, and laced her hands delicately at her front. 

“Shame,” she said flatly. “But not an issue of any matter.” 

And right on cue with her final words, the lights of the Workshop were cut off cold with resonating fizzles and sparks of electricity. The light of the fireplace behind them all was extinguished by a frigid spill of northern air that blasted from the shattering windows of the lounge and Globe Room. The Guardians cried out in shock and fright, before they recoiled at the blast of merciless winter air being washed over them. Snow and ice flooded the room in a howling roar of blizzard’s breath, the very light of their beloved Moon blocked out by the black clouds of winter’s storm. Darkness enveloped them all, accompanied by the taunting freeze of the north, and the shrieking roar of silence. 

And just before they could even attempt to regain their bearings, laughter was heard. Shrill and otherworldly, maniacal and sickeningly joyous. The pleasant jingle of chains assaulted their ears, deafening in their ominous promises of imprisonment. 

Still stood before her, Bunny barely managed to uncurl from his protective ball and look around. His wide eyes tried in vain to take in his surroundings. But it was too dark, too cold. The wind spat snowflakes and dry, frigid air into his eyes, blinding him indefinitely. He heard a scream from Tooth cut off in a short burst of fear, and North grunt and curse, followed by a thud. He thought he saw a brief glimpse of Sandy’s glowing gold body. But that too vanished in a split second, swallowed by the dark and cold, the manic laughter and pleasantly jingling chains. 

He panted frantically, turning to look back at Nature with a demand on his tongue. But he froze, eyes wide. She was gone, no longer standing before him. 

Below him, the snow piled up, surrounding his feet and clumping to his fur. The laughter was gone, and the chains had been silenced. His body shook – whether from cold or his own fear and confusion, he would never fully know. His legs were numb though, their feeling sapped away by the cold. 

Stunned, Bunny had to wonder if he was alone now, trapped within the decimated Workshop. He wondered where the Yetis and Elves were, and why they weren’t raising the alarm or coming to their aid. He wondered where Nature was, and if she was the cause of all this. 

_THUD!_

Bunny’s hackles rose, and slowly, he turned towards the source of the loud thud.

The fireplace mantle rumbled and creaked. The mosaic-like painting above the mantle teetered in its frame, bending down the middle, as if like a creature creeping under a rug. The glass shattered as it was warped further, the painting tearing down its middle. The mantle cracked and crumbled as the fissure crept down its center. Soot and ash fell from the throat of the chimney, and Bunny would actually hear the raspy, bestial breathing of a large, unknown creature crawling through it. 

He felt his heart stutter in terror as long, grey-blue clawed fingers curled out of the chimney’s throat. Thin and twig-like they seemed, yet they crumbled the mantle as the creature pulled itself out further. The rasp of a large form slithering along the stony interior was heard, along with an almost wood on stone scraping sound. He heard a low, menacing growl. 

And with a mighty _crack_ of the chimney and mantle, the large form forced itself out of the fireplace. 

Thick, chipped hooves stomped grandly upon the lounge floor, trailed by a ragged, frost-damaged cloak. Overly long, curved horns not unlike a ram’s crowned the unseen, hooded head above the hunchback body. Wound around its thick body were chains, and tied to those chains were iron bells that jingled pleasantly with each slight move the creature made.

After today, Bunny would never forget the sound of those bells. He would spend the rest of his life hearing them in his nightmares, accompanied by thumping hooves and the manic laughter of childlike creatures that would dance about with his terror and further his madness.   
The figure, enormous in its size, only seemed to grow bigger as it stood from its hunched position and towered over Bunny. Even hunched, it towered over the Pooka without even trying. Fog wafted from its hidden mouth in great puffs, and beady, glowing yellow eyes locked onto Bunny. 

Bunny could only gasp and tense, his entire body locked up in horror. He was frozen – both figuratively and literally. The snow had climbed up past his haunches and was starting to touch along his hips. The beast before him huffed, before it lumbered forward towards him, slowly, painfully _slowly._

Bunny couldn’t distinguish the thud of the beast’s hooves from the pounding of his heart. Although he suspected the more fast-paced thumping was his heart, he could feel it stuttering and tripping over itself with each dull _THUD_ the creature took. 

Bunny somehow found the ability to at least attempt to take a step back, but found the action futile. His legs were strapped within the snow, now packed tight and almost solid ice. He panted erratically, bordering on hyperventilating. Yet despite the cold air, his lungs burned, he could not catch a single bit of that cold in his mouth to swallow and douse the fire in his chest. His organs jumped and quivered as the beast drew nearer, now mere feet from him. 

And suddenly, it stopped. 

Bunny could not even gasp. He could only tremble, his wide, terrified eyes overcome by blown pupils and the hazy film of drying eyes. But he could not blink, let alone look away from the hulking behemoth before him. He was trapped, held captive and made into a motionless toy by that eerie yellow gaze. 

_Those eyes, like the burst of gold of a newly born sun…_

_The eyes of the Boogeyman._

_The eyes of a King._

_The eyes of his children…_

Bunny could not force words from his gaping mouth. His lungs shriveled and choked into useless sacks. His eyes burned, yet they were as useless as the endlessly staring, painted eyes of a wooden toy. His body was frozen, stuck forever to that one spot, destined to be held captive by this monster in its frigid realm. 

Yet somehow, in his muddled and toxic mind, Bunny heard a faint voice tell him to say something. But before he could even make a remote attempt to form words, a stab of painful agony shot up one of his legs.

He cried out, stunned into a stupor at the sensation when he had thought his legs were completely numb. He gasped as he felt something – _something_ – clamp around his foot with jagged teeth. The laughter that was once silent returned in full force, and he felt rather than heard the little creatures approach as chains were thrown over him. He choked as one managed to lasso around his neck and was yanked back. He cried out again as the same thing beneath the snow clamped onto his other leg, tearing through his fur and skin – he somehow knew the snow was soon going to be stained red with his blood. 

“Gah…!” He choked as more chains were thrown over him, binding him like a rabid animal. His arms were bound and yanked akimbo.

And he only realized then that he was starting to sink. 

_‘No…!’_ He yanked at the chains, his eyes unable to leave the beast above him as it seemed to grow as he was pulled further into the snow. 

He found some semblance of strength as the snow touched his under-arms. He clawed at the snow despite the chains about his wrists and arms. He only continued to sink though, being dragged under by that unknown creature that had bitten into his feet and legs like a bear-trap. His heart leaped into his throat as the beast bent down over him, the Pooka catching a faint glimpse of a large, gaping mouth* and frostbitten skin. 

It reached down with one of its claw-like hands, a sharp nail touching the shallow edge of Bunny’s forehead. The Pooka shuddered violently, eyes crossing somewhat as the claw gently traced down his forehead and over his velvety nose. Numb from the cold, Bunny was oblivious to the dark red line of blood the claw had drawn down his nose. He panted shallowly as the beast drew its claw back.

A low, rumbling chuckle was heard from it, and Bunny got the impression that the beast was smiling. 

“Gruss vom Krampus…” it rumbled.

Bunny couldn’t even gasp in horror as it suddenly seemed to click in his head. Before he could even think of feeling an ounce of outrage, fear overtook him once more as he was swallowed by the frigid blanket of snow.

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.) Well hello, is this a reference to the recent Krampus movie? Why yes it is~ XD Anyways, as it turns out, the Krampus of the 2015 movie actually wears a Santa Clause mask! I did not know this until today when I was looking up images of his face. His actual face is, at the moment, unknown. But, if you go to the Weta shop and look up his collectable figurine, one picture is a head on close up of his masked face, and you can clearly see the edges of the eye holes, and his real teeth behind the fake teeth of the mask. Weta also sells fully functional replicas of his bells! (I am the proud owner of one myself and am contemplating getting one or two more) 
> 
> I do NOT own Krampus or any of the movies inspired by him. I highly recommend the movie. 
> 
> Happy belated Easter, Bunnymund. 8)
> 
> ~S~


	22. An Eye for an Eye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's official. I'm going to hell after this. 8D 
> 
> **WARNING!** For mild(?) gore, some blood, and my Father Time.
> 
> ~S~

The silence was a roar.

The darkness was blinding.

The stillness was dizzying. 

In all his long centuries of life, North had never once felt such conflicting sensations. Eyes wide open, or perhaps screwed shut, he did not know. He only knew this silence, this darkness, and this stillness. Such was this void of nothing, this cramped, yet open space he could neither grasp nor distance himself from. It was the all-encompassing cocoon of nothingness.

This was the Abyss. This was the place of true monsters, of those things without name, without purpose, outside of existence itself. This place of suspension, the chokehold of one’s clarity of self-awareness. It threatened to swallow all that was left of North. 

In a way, he hoped it was enough to erase his existence, his emotions, his mind. At least then he would not feel so disjointed and lost. At least then he would not have doubts and questions clouding his mind and poisoning his blood. At least then he could forget…

His constricting cocoon shifted suddenly, vertigo washing over him in a dizzying storm that rained nitrogen into his gullet. Nausea rose into his throat in a wash of burning bile, yet he somehow found his throat useless in purging the toxic brew from his body. 

The roaring silence was broken only briefly, deafeningly, with a low rumble. He gasped as his back met a solid, flat surface. The chill of the stony floor rushed up into his spine, touching each nerve in his body and shocking him from his disorienting resolve. He blinked rapidly, eyes adjusting as the void seemed to flee from him, and was soon replaced by the stagnant darkness of a small, confining space. The darkness was broken by tiny pinpricks of light left in the fabric of his confines.

North felt his spinning mind settling, his confusion swiftly dying, and his memory starting to recalibrate. Above him, he heard voices – two familiar females, and a beastly male.

“You are late.” 

“ _Entschuldigen Sie_. My toys wanted to play with the Pooka.”

North shuddered violently, his entire body locking up. That voice. That heavy German accent…

“This is no time for your minions to be playing,” was the stern reply from who North recognized as Libra. “We have much business to get to, and matters to settle.”

A low grumble was heard, a poor method of acknowledgement. But Libra did not seem put out, and the other female’s voice joined them. Mother Nature. 

“Let them out,” she said. 

“You are certain?” the beast rumbled. North had the impression that Nature had nodded curtly.

“They cannot do anything, Krampus. Please let them out,” she said. 

Another guttural huff, accompanied by the crusty rasp of ice-stiff clothing shifting. North gasped as he felt the encompassing fabric around him tighten as it was lifted. His world shifted, vertigo fluttering in his stomach like the distressed flutter of a bird’s wings. A single beam of light the size of his fist assaulted him, his eyes snapping closed on instinct. 

He yelped as he tumbled and landed upon a cold, hard floor of smooth stone. Eyes still screwed shut, he could faintly hear other thumps and exclamations of shock and pain flanking his hearing. He gasped as the cold air of a familiar courtroom flooded his lungs and stung his nose. Murmurs of various unknown sources flooded his hearing. 

The single bang of a gavel had North’s eyes springing open, obvious or ignoring the painful sting of light assaulting his vision. He blinked watery eyes, trying to will away the heated tears brought on by the stinging of light. Above him and his colleagues, Libra stood at her stand, her blindfolded eyes seemingly looking somewhere above their heads. 

“So glad you could join us, Guardians…” was her drawled greeting.

North swallowed. Libra was not exactly a sarcastic, or even remotely humorous woman. It was quite apparent that he and his fellow Guardians were in serious trouble right now…again. 

Around him, North could pick up the faintest forms of numerous spirits in the stands just at the corners of his vision. He did not dare look up and around him, somehow fearing that locking eyes with any spirit in that room would result in his Oblivion. He did not dare face anyone, not even Libra herself. 

On either side of the Judge’s stand sat the two highest spirits of their world and beyond – Time and Nature. Time regarded the Guardians serenely as ever, yet there was an energy about him that groaned and shifted like cracking ice. In her usual seat, Nature regarded the Guardians coolly over the hunched shoulder of the cloaked beast with large, curved horns. 

North swallowed thickly, before his attention was drawn to a low growling just behind him. He looked up, and no sooner cringed and hissed. 

The short, masked creature* cackled lowly, its hide-covered shoulders shaking ever so slightly in its mirth. In one of its spindly hands, it held a length of chains, and it took North a moment to realize the chain was connected to a thick, heavy cuff bidding one of his ankles. Shaking, face pale, he looked behind himself to see his fellow Guardians in the same state. Trapped, petrified of the malicious creatures hovering over them, at least one of their limbs bound in heavy chains. They were scrutinized by the pale, carved masks, the creatures underneath not but mockeries of North’s own dimwitted Elves. 

All were fearful and confused – except for one.

It was difficult to be noticeably afraid and confused when you are sunk so deep in the tar of your own muddled mind. 

“Get the fuck off of me!” Bunny shrieked and roared, thrashing so violently that he was tearing out fur and opening wounds. His arm, still hairless and burnt from Nature’s attack*, peeled and bled as the raw flesh was agitated by his movement. 

Krampus’ helpers hissed and cackled, three of them throwing new chains and binds over the Pooka while two others attempted to incapacitate him. A fifth helper rushed over, brandishing a splintery wooden club. Brandishing it over one shoulder like a baseball bat, the other Guardians were too late in shouting their warning as the helper brought it down against Bunny’s back with a sickening crack. 

Bunny fell forward with a choked gasp. But he was not completely incapacitated. The chains now binding him to the floor, he screamed and spat, rolling and thrashing like a furious crocodile. Spit and foam frothed at his mouth, his buck teeth snapping at anything it could possibly catch on without a single care as to what he caught – he didn’t even care that he managed to punch a hole in one of his ears in all the confusion. 

North did not need to look at the gathered spirits to know they we relooking upon the Guardian of Hope in disgust and fear. North felt oddly numb, his heart pulsing throughout his entire body in steady, thunderous beats. He felt like he was watching a show in a dark, macabre circus. 

_Come one, come all! See the ravenous, mad beast of the Pookan race!_

Ice flooded his veins, his blood freezing and heart twisting as the frozen particles grew like spears from his ribs and speared his organs. 

Above them all, Libra scowled.

“Krampus…” she said in warning.

“Yes, miss…” the beast rumbled, turning to look at his minions. He barked once at them like a large dog, snarling once and huffing through wet nostrils. 

The masked Elves paused to look at their master, before whispering to themselves incoherently. They giggled and nodded. The ones holding chains to North, Tooth, and Sandy yanked them forward so they stood in a straight row before Libra. The team binding Bunny tightened their chains until Bunny was bound and wrapped in iron, yanking him slightly upright so he may walk – or rather, stagger – to stand beside his colleagues. 

He still snarled and snapped, not even screaming or shrieking anymore. He panted and hissed in his binds, snapping at his own ears if they flopped into his peripheral. Drool and his own blood dribbled down his chin, his wide, manic eyes swerving about uncontrollably and without a single ounce of focus. 

The Guardians stared at Bunny, baffled and frightened, disbelieving. Tooth trembled, standing closest to the animal-like Pooka. She shakily turned her gaze to Krampus, her expression somehow caught between fear and angry accusation. 

“What did you do to him…?” she rasped. 

It was Nature who answered her. “Krampus did nothing. Your Pooka friend has been in a mental decline since Pitch’s imprisonment, possibly even before then.” 

“That’s not-!”

Libra held up a hand, silencing any protest from the Fairy Queen. Even with her blindfold, the Guardians felt her scowl at them.

“Enough. I will not have you lot sullying this silence. You will respect our departed friends and family,” she snapped.

The Guardians – sans Bunny – paused and frowned at this. It took them a moment before it fully dawned on them.

The courtroom was mostly the same as it had been during their first visit. But it was dimmer, the lights doused or dimmed, casting the room in mournful glow cloaked in the weeds of shadows. Candles stood in place of more vibrant light sources, some being held by spirits in the stands. It also occurred to them that there were not even enough spirits to fill _half_ the stands of Libra’s courtroom. 

The courtroom was round, almost oval-shaped, and composed of three levels. The top hosted the dozens and dozens of stands for witnesses and watchers. The second level was for the jury, testimony, and higher spirits. And finally, the bottom level, formed as a sort of stony, round pit flanked by the walls of the lowest stands and the mid-level. These walls formed a perfectly smooth barrier, the marble stone unblemished and clean.

But now, the walls of the pit were _black_. And upon their inky, looming surface, were names being magically carved into them in even rows. 

_You will respect our departed…_

North barely heard Tooth gasp and clap her hands to her mouth, nor did he take note of Sandy’s trembling and horrified form.

The courtroom was huge, and the pit was large enough to fit one hundred Yetis with their arms outspread within its confines. 

And the entire length of the black walls of the pit were almost completely filled with names. 

_You will respect our departed…_

The Guardians, somehow deaf, yet their senses strung high, seemed oblivious to Libra as she announced a Death Reading. They did not hear her words, but they heard the names she listed off.

Cernunnos, the Celtic guardian of animals.

Cocidius, the hunter of the wood.

Addanc, the Welsh lake monster.

Grendel, the descendant of Cain. 

Melusine, a serpent water spirit of Germany.

Baykok, the skeletal Native American hunter.

The Grootslang, the ancient guardian of snakes and elephants.

The Thunderbird, the Native American spirit of wrath and sky.*

The names began to blend together as the long minutes passed. Faces no longer registered in the Guardians’ minds to go with the many names. Their minds decimated into voids of thoughtless silence and stunned disbelief. 

They were oblivious yet deafened by the quiet sobs and the mournful gasps of the other present spirits. Many trembled, seeking comfort from those they knew, and those they did not. Some sought after the embrace and reassurance of those they were close to, only to be reminded of their death as their names were read and scrawled upon the walls of the pit. 

Dark spirits, elements, light spirits, beasts, monsters, neutrals, wights, fae, wraiths, shades, and everything in between and beyond them. 

They were all _dead_.

Libra read off the last name after a whole twenty minutes of reading from a long scroll. She was about to speak then, but paused when a small gust of wind ruffled her hair and seemed to fall into Nature’s lap. The ringing of little bells echoed throughout the courtroom, catching the attention of everyone who did and did not know of the familiar bell chimes. 

The wind nymph sighed mournfully as it formed in Nature’s lap, her tiny body translucent and composed of white fog and glassy mist. Nature cradled the little nymph in her hands, craning her neck to listen to her nymph speak. The language of the wind whispered in her ear, before the nymph gently laid something in one of her palms. The nymph vanished in a sigh of the air.

Nature straightened and looked down at what her nymph left her in her hand. Her lips tightened, and she sighed softly. 

Facing the room full of eyes of anticipation and inquiry, she held up the three leather strings of small silver bells. 

“Falling from the sky in his desperate attempt to reach a friend,” she said, “My wind nymphs tried to catch him, but it was too late. Death had him in his arms before they could plead for his life.” 

Not a sound was heard. Not a sob, a sigh, or a cry. Not even the Guardians could utter a sound, as they gaped at the familiar bells that once belonged to a fast friend of Jack’s. 

Libra sighed softly through her nose, shoulders squaring in a somewhat stifled attempt of stability.

“Harlequin Trouillefou* Aprils…” she said. 

The names scrawled nearest the Guardians shifted a row down, creating a blank spot. Harley’s name soon scrawled itself into the empty space to join the other names. One of the few names that would still have a face. And one of the few the Guardians would miss. 

The whole courtroom was still looking at Nature, eyes pleading and almost desperate. There were questions in their eyes. _How, why, and when?_

Nature thinned her lips, obsidian eyes swerving slowly to her temporal counterpart. Her brows creased suspiciously, annoyingly, as she watched the oddly fidgety temporal entity on Libra’s other side. Perfect white teeth nibbled demurely on a silvery gloved finger. He was not oblivious to her gaze, and smiled at the room at large.

“He left Lady Nature’s Eden yesterday evening, bolstered with the instinctual realization that he was going to die in only a handful of hours,” he started pleasantly, “Desperation fueled him, but he was weak, spiraling in the throes of Death. The wind nymphs, seeing his hysterical escape, pursued him, but they could do very little to stop him. 

“He spoke to himself, whispering words in his desperate flight. Of how he could not leave things like this, how he could not die without telling him that it’s okay, that it will be alright. He only got as far as Europe, before with a final breath, Harlequin fell from the sky, and into Death’s arms.”

He smiled over at Nature, lips thinning as his mouth stretched into an impossibly wide, Cheshire cat smile. 

“He succumbed to Oblivion before he hit the ground. All that was left were his bells.” He shrugged nonchalantly. 

No one spoke or made a sound, but Libra eventually spoke up in inquiry.

“Who exactly was he seeking out?” she asked, “He left the Eden, and you claim he spoke of wanting to speak to someone.”

Time nodded, shifting his blind eyes onto the Guardians once more. 

“Harlequin is the Spirit of Forgiveness*,” he said, “In his realization of impending death, he fled from the Eden to pass his last forgiveness to the one person who would need it, and who would cherish it – Jack Frost.” 

North felt his heart stutter in his chest, Tooth gasping and Sandy’s light visibly dimming and brightening in a stunned flicker. Bunny only shuddered once, eyes narrowing and flickering about the room in a paranoid rove. He did not seem to hear, or even acknowledge what Time had said. He did not even seem to care that a fellow spirit the Guardians knew fairly well was now dead. That forgiveness itself was _dead_. 

The Bells of Forgiveness* were now without their keeper, and now would be as silent as their once joyful and laughter-filled owner. 

“You’re lying…”

The Guardians flinched – not from the lowly rasped words, but from the sudden, jerking turn of Time’s head that allowed him to face the speaker. His Cheshire smile returned, and he leaned forward in his seat eagerly. A slim finger wound through one of the thin plaits of his hair as he propped his chin on a palm. 

“Master Bunnymund…” he purred, sending shudders throughout every spine in that room, “So kind of you to grace us with your presence.” 

“You’re lying…” Bunny snarled lowly, eyes flickering about the room still, the fuzz about his jaw damp and darkened from drool and blood. 

“Am I now?” Time laughed delightfully, like a child presented with a strange contraption to play with.

“You’re lying…!” Bunny rasped, spittle flying from his mouth as he finally seemed to regain some semblance of focus, and lock eyes onto Time. “This isn’t real…! This is all just a nightmare Pitch made up…!”

The other Guardians blinked dumbly, while the other spirits above them all studied Bunny with varying emotions. Some seemed confused, while others seemed angry. Some were rather blank in expression, and others seemed to boast a whole rainbow of emotions and expressions upon their faces. 

Seeing the whole room’s attention on him, Bunny cracked a shaky, manic smile. His wide, murky green eyes trembled in their sockets.

“This isn’t real…!” he gasped, hysterical yet so _certain_ , “This is just a nightmare! This is all Pitch’s fault! No one’s really dead, this is just some twisted nightmare he’s put us under! And you’re all idiots for not realizing it sooner…!” 

_‘He thinks this is…all a dream…?’_ North thought, stunned and beyond words. How could Bunny think this was just a dream, a nightmare? To most, it would seem like it, but it was blatantly obvious that this was all _real._

Bunny bore scars and painfully raw skin on his arm from Nature’s attack. His ears had holes punched through them by his own buck teeth. He was bound by a serpentine chain to Nature herself and barred from his Warren. Humans and spirits were _dying._

But no, this was not how the Pooka saw it. North could see it in his once vibrant green eyes. The Guardian of Hope was succumbing to the unseen beast consuming the world itself. He had allowed madness to creep into his mind and baseless rage into his heart. The delusions of his world had warped to such a morbid point, that he no longer even saw the world as real anymore. None of it was real to Bunny anymore.

It was all just a bad dream, and he was the only one who realized it. 

He was the only one who _believed_ it.

His friend and fellow Guardian was gone. He was no longer with them. The last Pooka on Earth had died long before they even realized he was gone. 

North felt his heart break, and his very resolve thin into brittle glass. When had this happened? When had Bunny truly started changing? How had he and his friends not noticed all these drastic changes in his personality and behavior? How could they have _missed_ their friend’s death…?

North was broken from his thoughts with a jolt. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and he felt his knees knock and wobble unsteadily. 

Time’s airy, angelic laughter was something to be revered, and feared. The Angel’s silver bell voice should have soothed wounds and healed broken hearts. But somehow, despite its heavenly chime, it rained down destruction. Mountains could crumble and seas would dry under his laughter. Minds and hearts broke, breath was stolen, and lives were cut short whenever he released that melodious laugh. 

This time was no different. North felt his very sanity shake, his heart stuttering in the warning trembles of a coming earthquake. 

Time calmed – but only barely. He bit his lip demurely, yet violently. The soft flesh of his full bottom lip painted a blushed reddish-pink at the abuse, and his dexterous fingers tugged at silky locks. 

He virtually squirmed in his seat, the air around his body wavering and warping, as if from the heat of a mirage. The spirits around the Guardians seemed to curl in on themselves, instincts telling them to flee, despite knowing there was no chance of escape. Their eyes averted submissively from the temporal Angel. Even Libra seemed to lean away from Time, lips thinned and hands clenched into fists on her desktop. 

“You think me a liar, dear Bunnymund?” Time inquired. Bunny mumbled incoherently for a moment, before he spoke a bit more clearly.

“All nightmares are lies…” he rasped, suddenly lowering down to sit on his haunches, “You’re a liar in real life too…”

Bunny suddenly barked a short, stifled laugh that he just as quickly cut off with a gasp. His buck front teeth bit into his lip, puncturing the thin skin and only adding onto the red stains around his mouth. 

“This is all a lie…!” he gasped. “This is all just a bad dream!”

Whispers erupted among the witnessing souls. Softened words of madness and disbelief, riding on the gentle, fluttering breaths of whispering butterfly wings. Bunny did not seem to hear them though, his wrathful, paranoid, mad eyes upon the temporal man sitting above him. Time simply smiled though, delicately sculpted brows lowering into an almost but not quite leering frown. His tongue pushed against his white teeth, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He looked like a hungry, sultry animal. 

North swallowed thickly, feeling a shuddering chill of _something_ coming over him. Something inside of him was screaming, telling him to run, to silence Bunny. Something ominous floated above the Guardians, something sinister, something ancient. Something _very_ hungry. 

North looked at his colleague, his mouth open to speak. But no words escaped. A thousand words were already set in his head to say to the Pooka. Yet the moment he looked at Bunny, every single letter, syllable, and sentence died on his tongue. There were words to be said to Bunnymund, but when North looked at him, he did not see his old friend and holiday rival. He did not know _what_ he was seeing. But it wasn’t the intelligent, hot-headed Pooka he knew. 

He didn’t think his friend could become such a beast – something _lower_ than an animal. 

“You really believe it…” 

North startled, eyes shifting to look around Bunny and at the trembling form of Tooth. The fairy queen was staring at Bunny – no, not staring. There was no real word to use for the way she was looking at the Pooka. But North could akin it to the gaze people used when looking upon something horrific. The horrified, bewildered gaze upon the aftermath of a violent car crash, of eyes upon the dying remains of a diseased animal. The disgust and uncertainty worn when people watch a once sane human disintegrate into the throes of insanity behind reinforced glass and bars. 

It was an expression reserved only for the horror of realizing that you have lost something precious years ago, and only just now noticed. 

Her eyes swam with unshed tears, feathers flattening along her petite body. Her wings shuddered at her back as she trembled. 

“You think this is all a dream…” she rasped, “You really, _truly_ believe that this is all a figment of Pitch’s imagination? You honestly think he would conjure something like _this?_ What would be the _point?!_ ”

She gasped as Bunny’s head veered to her. His eyes trembled, not entirely able to focus on the fairy queen. His lips pulled back in a snarl, and he loomed as much as he could over Tooth while stifled by the binds of Krampus’ elves. 

“You’re so stupid, Tooth. It’s just a dream. You don’t need to believe any of this. We’ll wake up once you realize you’re dreaming…” He growled, his lips twitching in a conflicted indecision on whether to smile or scowl. 

Tooth blanched, her knees nearly giving out under the maddened Pooka’s gaze. Part of her wanted to point out that if this was a dream, then how can Sandy not realize it? He was a giver of dreams, the Guardian of Dreams himself. How could he be unable to break this spell, to realize nothing was real here? 

But another part of her knew he would not find any logic or weight to her words. Bunny’s last thread had snapped when Krampus had confronted them, and shown Bunny just how little control he had over the situation. It was as if through that one action of showing Bunny just how helpless and useless he was, Bunny had fled from his own mind. He retreated from reality itself, burying himself in walls of delusions that simply made sense enough to him to believe. He had cocooned himself in these delusions, forming a wall, a shell. And he refused to break out of it. 

“It is so much easier for a scared little rabbit to run.” 

Tooth gasped, feathers bristling. North felt that ice flood his veins once more, seeping into his organs and bones like persistent roots. Sandy visibly shook, his glow dimming into a submissive, frightened flicker. 

Time suddenly stood, startling every spirit in the room, including the usually stoic and unflappable Libra. Nature’s lips thinned, but she gave no other outward reaction towards the slender Angel. 

In a dizzying ripple of time and space, Time suddenly stood before the Guardians within the pit. The warping transition was nauseating, and North had to physically swallow back bile laced with whiskey. He felt his bones crack and his skin tighten. He imagined his fellow Guardians felt equal or similar sensations in the temporal man’s presence. 

With the grace of a prowling, ravenous feline, and the kind and gentle air of a sympathetic man, Time approached the rabid Pooka. Internally, North was telling Time to stay away, to leave Bunny be. Whether for his own or Bunny’s safety, North was not certain. He knew in his mind that Time was a powerful entity that could destroy them all without twitching a finger. Yet in his heart, the part of him that fell under Time’s love-spell, felt it was his due to warn the delicate-looking man, to protect the blind Angel*. 

He could conjure no words though, and could only watch. 

Bunny bore his teeth at the smaller spirit, lunging forward in a stifled attempt to intimidate Time*. But he only smiled, chuckling amusedly. He reached up, slim fingers reaching out to graze the matted fur of Bunny’s chin. Protests lodged in every throat, Time swiftly pulled his hand back when Bunny attempted to snap his teeth at his hand. He laughed outright. 

“Naughty thing…” he purred. 

“Piss off…!” Bunny snarled, before muttering, “Look just like him. Slut. Beautiful. Kill you. Hate you. Took my _people…!_ ”

“Aahhh…” Time sighed in intrigue. “We come to the cusp of the issue.”

“Time…” Nature growled in warning. But Time either ignored her, or simply did not want to spend energy in waving her off. 

He stepped back a pace from Bunny so he could look up at the tall Pooka, not the least bit intimidated by the other’s massive height. 

“I have a proposal for you, Bunnymund,” he said, his lips pulling back in a toothy grin, fangs elongated and glistening. “How about we play a _game?_ ”

A simultaneous gasp was cut short from every spirit in the room, choked back and swallowed fearfully. Muscles tightened and bodies shook. Not even the Guardians were left out of the shock and fright that now flooded the room and all but drowned them. 

Bunny growled. “I ain’t playing any games with the likes of _you._ ”

“And why ever not?” Time asked with thinly veiled hurt. 

“Because you cheat. You’re a murderer and a liar. You take, and take, _and take_ till there is nothing left…!” Bunny snapped, eyes widening in a wild abandoning of his miniscule restraint. 

“My, that is quite hurtful,” Time commented, starting to circle the Pooka – whether to annoy him or goad him was unknown. Probably both. 

Bunny hissed and snapped at Time’s white and silver cloak, missing the silken fabric entirely. Time ducked under, or simply _walked through_ the binds holding Bunny. His fingers occasionally came out to caress the roughly welded chains, flicking iron bells attached to them curiously.

“But, I suppose I earned my reputation,” he sighed almost ruefully, “My games do tend to become a bit…unorthodox*.”

“Your games are rigged, and the prize is something I never want.” Bunny growled, trying to catch Time over his shoulder. “The prize millions have clawed for…a night under you or above you*. Disgusting.” 

“I won’t deny that claim.” Time shrugged. “But that isn’t the only prize option if one were to win one of my games. The opponent is completely free to ask what they wish of me should they win.”

“Lies, lies…”

“Oh?” Time paused, now standing to Bunny’s other side, a finger curled around a length of chain. “You think so little of me? Even in a _dream?_ ”

“You ain’t real…”

Time quirked a brow, almost scandalized. But his smile said otherwise. He turned on his heel to properly face Bunny, one hand on a desirable hip.

“Alright, let’s make this interesting…” he purred. Raising a hand, he gestured to the masked elves binding the Pooka.

The elves muttered incoherently, but followed the silent request regardless. With a few tugs and snaps of the wrists, the chains binding Bunny fell away and retracted to their owner’s hands. The elves giggled and scampered away before Bunny could swipe at them with his claws.

Reaching up too swiftly for Bunny to react, Time grasped the Pooka’s chin firmly to keep his focus on Time himself. His grip was strong, bordering on crushing the dense bone of Bunny’s jaw. Yet to an onlooker, it simply looked like a lover cupping his partner’s chin enduringly. 

He brought down Bunny’s head to be slightly level with his face.

“How about, instead of a game, we have a little _wager?_ ” he purred, teeth flashing eerily through the heavenly mask. 

“NO!” North found himself shouting, almost completely out of his own freewill. He blinked dumbly, before deciding he had already spoken up and caught everyone’s attention. He might as well finish what he started.

“Time, no, please,” he said. He could feel the chains tightening around his ankle. “Please…Bunny is not well. Please do not take your ire out on him, he does not know what he will be getting himself into.”

“But North, what’s the harm?” Time chuckled kindly to the Russian. “After all, this is just a dream. What could he possibly lose?”

To North’s horror, Bunny seemed to shakily consider Time’s words. Though he was glaring at him, Bunny seemed to wonder. What could he possibly lose? He was in a twisted dream conjured by Pitch. The Time standing before him now was fake, as authentic as the Boogeyman had made him. But this Time was still a fake. Pitch could not authenticate the real Father Time, as much as he may try. Perhaps if he played this Angel’s game, and won, then the spell would be broken.

He and the Guardians would wake up, they would be free! Then they could hunt Pitch down, and finish what they started. No imprisonment though, no, that would be too merciful. No, once the spell was broken, Bunny planned to _murder_ Pitch. 

He would _kill_ that man, and he would hold not a single regret. The other spirits would understand. Even Libra would understand once they told her and others what Pitch had done, never mind what damage he may have caused while they were all asleep. 

It would all go back to the way it was supposed to be – the Guardians powerful and united as they shaped their ideal world and brought happiness to children. Jack would be fine, and go back to being that airheaded, happy-go-lucky boy he was. He would become one of them, sooner than later, and he would fit in with them perfectly. Bunny would continue his holiday, and reclaim his people’s home as his own. 

His people would be proud of him. They would be _proud_ of him…

Time’s smile curved like a cutlass, sharp and beautiful.

“What say you, master Bunnymund?” he inquired, “Do we have a wager?”

Bunny mumbled incoherently, jaw flexing and teeth gritting. 

“If you lose…” He paused, as if uncertain, thoughtful. Time chuckled.

“Go on. Set your terms. It can be anything and everything you could possibly want. And should you win, I will give it to you,” he said.

Bunny rumbled lowly, eyes hazing. He seemed to withdraw further into himself, another layer being added to the shell around him. Like a thick coat of muddled paint, hardening, reinforcing the barrier he built. He swayed uneasily, his gaze lost. 

The spirits all waited in anticipation and trepidation. The Guardians pleaded to Bunny with their eyes, unable to voice protest. There was simply no reaching Bunny now. He could not – _would not_ – listen to them. He only had ears for the Angel before him, and clouded eyes for the prize he sought.

“You…give them back. All of them,” he mumbled, almost slurring. A dribble of drool slid onto Time’s hand under his chin, staining the glove. But Time paid it no mind, and cocked his head to one side.

“You mean your people?” he inquired.

Bunny nodded. No one could even gasp this time at the sheer _audacity_ of the Pooka. He had demanded that his winning be the reversing of a catalyst, the revival of his long extinct people. To even think of asking Time such a thing…

Time _laughed._

“My, that is quite a heavy bargain,” he said, and everyone thought he would reject the bargain outright. But to their absolute shock, he did not. “Deal.”

“Time.” Nature stood from her seat, her scowl outraged. “To even _consider_ such a wager, on _my_ planet-”

“ _Our_ planet, dear.”

“I will not have it,” Nature snapped. “Extinction is final. You, Death, and I agreed that the extinction of a high race was to remain permanent and nonnegotiable. You would dare go against such an agreement? When our world is being ravaged by the possibility of being ended completely?”

Time looked up at Nature, a brow quirked almost confusedly.

“You say it as if I will lose,” he said. Nature clenched her fists.

“That is _not_ the point…!” she snarled.

Time chuckled. “This does not concern you, my dear. So please, sit back, relax, have some tea or something.”

More than a few spirits cringed at the exchange, more so at Time’s final response. Nature’s face turned red, her hair whipping angrily in an unfelt wind. Her arms trembled with the force of her clenched fists. But a knowing look, and a simple smile, from Time had her subdued. Stiffly and with an unforgiving scowl upon her face, she took her seat once more. 

“I will have your head after this,” she snapped. Time chuckled.

“Of course.” He turned back to Bunny, releasing his chin. “Now then, the wager-”

“Your word,” Bunny suddenly rasped. 

Time quirked a brow. “Pardon?”

“Your word,” Bunny said more firmly, yet still slightly slurred and unsteady. “I want your word. As an Angel. That if I win, you bring them back. All of them.”

Time would have blinked in surprise – if he could feel surprise – and hummed thoughtfully. He placed a delicate hand to his chest.

“You don’t trust me?” he asked hurtfully. 

Bunny’s response was to spit a bloodied blob of saliva at the temporal man’s boots. Time didn’t even change his expression.

“Rude…” he said, holding his arms out in surrender, “But very well. You have my word, as an Angel, as the keeper of time itself, as the watcher of Earth and time, that should you win this wager, your people will be restored…”

He brought his hands forward, his left hand starting to tug the fingers of his right hand’s glove. His slim hand slipped free of the silver confines. His pale skin was decorated with natural, silvery markings* not unlike tattoos that wavered and slithered just under his skin like snakes. Runes and markings shifted around his tendons and bones, while silver, star-painted nails glistened like diamonds stuck to molten pewter. 

He laid his right index finger against the top edge of the clock imbedded in his breast over his heart. 

“Every…” 

He dragged his finger down across the clock face, leaving behind a bright, silvery-white line in its wake.

“Single…”

Moving to the bottom of the other side of the clock face, he dragged his finger back up, leaving behind the same glowing trail. 

“One.” A bright white ‘X’* now stamped upon his heart, he cupped his bare hand over it and gave the Pooka a shallow bow. 

He smirked up at Bunny, who leered at him anxiously.

“Fair enough?” he asked. Bunny huffed, his only response in the positive. Time chuckled, the glowing white ‘X’ fading from his person, but the Vow still heavily imprinted upon his being. 

It was enough – more than enough. When a god-like spirit – any spirit – gives his or her word in a Vow, they are bound for all eternity. Not even Time was exempt from this law. 

“Oh but wait!” Time exclaimed, face morphing into surprised bewilderment, “We haven’t decided what our game will be!” 

Bunny snarled, the fur along his back bristling as rage coursed through him. He knew it, he knew Time would not keep his word-

“I got it!” Time suddenly said, clasping his hands together, and startling even Bunny. He smirked up at the Pooka, mouth unnaturally wide, and brows furrowed into a leering scowl. His eyelids _fluttered._

“Let’s play, _I spy…_ ”

And like lightning struck to a tree, Bunny’s entire being erupted with electric pain and agony. His mouth fell open as his back lurched in a great arch, but no sound escaped his mouth. 

In the mere, split second blink of one of Time’s own eyes, Bunny was violently thrown from Libra’s Court, and into the past fifty years that he and his fellow Guardians had wrought upon their world. 

It started off as simple – _simple and so innocuous_. So brave, so courageous and strong. Children laughed and ran, joyous and without care. They were all so happy, this sudden uplift of their hearts and souls, this lack of even the tiniest shadow in their lives. 

Nothing was there to harm them now. They were invincible. The darkness was gone. They were immortal now. They would never grow up – they would stay fearless and free children forever. 

Rooftops were no longer off limits, and became cliffs for children sprouting wings to take off. Large seas were merely bodies of water needing exploring, filled with friendly sea creatures and sea monsters that needed slaying. Great treasure awaited them out there, and why wouldn’t a simple inner tube not get them where they needed to go? Those tigers, bears, and wolves at the zoo were misunderstood and needed to be freed – just like in the movies! Girls could ride tigers through the woods, boys could tame bears. There was _no danger_ to leaping into enclosures to aid in the animals’ escape. No danger whatsoever.

_It was all an accident. Children will be children. It is just unfortunate that these things happen…_

Ten years, and now the adults were acting odd. Reckless and thoughtless. Drunk driving was not even a discussion anymore, but a simple joke told in bars. Walking home alone at night, what was there to fear? No one could hurt me here, so close to home, in my safe haven. You wouldn’t be caught robbing or harming someone, there was nothing to fear. You were not hurting anyone – how could you be if you yourself were not afraid?

Nothing could be hurt, no one could be harmed.

_Crime may be going up, but that’s nothing new. It will go down eventually. This is just a spike in reckless crime…_

Twenty years, and something was darkening in the humans. This fearlessness was frustrating. Where is the excitement? Where is the rush? Are we not being exciting enough? Perhaps we must try something new. No, don’t use a rope on the climb, it won’t be as fun. No, wait to pull the shoot-string, that will get your blood pumping. No, don’t slow down, speed up! Take a risk! Why is nothing exciting anymore? Why aren’t we happy…?

_Accidents happen…_

Thirty years – the rush was all anyone thinks about. That unreachable spark that gave people life. It’s not working, we’re not being dangerous enough, we’re not doing anything exciting enough. Am I alive? Are we alive? What are we? Are we human? You, who are you? Do you feel anything? I can’t feel anything. Here, I have a knife, let’s see if you feel anything. Your gun, load it, and shoot that person. Billy, look! I got my dad’s gun! Isn’t it cool?! Let’s try it out on Jake next door! Let’s show it to everyone at school!

_Madness, madness, madness…_

Forty years – the people who hold power suddenly realize they have their hands on the buttons that could decimate whole nations. Brilliant minds, skilled combatants, criminals, teachers of defense – everyone who held even a spark of power, and they suddenly realize they could use it. Suddenly they were not afraid to break peace treaties or murder millions. Suddenly, there was no reason to be peaceful. Where is the fun in that? I hold the power! Why should I not use it? Why should I not take what I want, what I need to feel human again?! 

_Global War has been declared, billions dead, millions of animals extinct, cities, towns, whole nations are nothing but ash…_

Fifty years – the world had changed. It is no longer the Earth everyone once knew. The humans had lost their minds. Not even newborn children are spared from this sickness. Their eyes were hollow when they were born. They did not cry, they did nothing but lay there, confused and without the humanity everyone was born with and grow into. Infants were no longer precious gifts. They were a waste of resources. They were that which was not human, so why keep it? They no longer look like babies anyways. These can’t be human, they do not look human. There is a limb missing, or too many. This one can’t see, this one has no brain, and this one is already dead and grey. 

The world was no longer a living, breathing planet. It was a time bomb, waiting for the final judgement of the parasites upon Her surface. 

And just alongside the mortal realm, the world of the immortals was dying. Through his eyes, Bunny watched every single spirit’s death in gruesome detail. Fifty years passed behind his eyes in a flash, but he traversed these bloodied grounds for all of that time, in the slowest crawl one could manage. It was not just their deaths he saw. No, he got to see the times before their deaths. He saw their loved ones, their families, their cherished friends and beloved companions. He saw lovers torn from each other, one taken by Death before the other. He saw those who shared an intimate bond go mad as one was taken from them. He watched families and fellow spirits crumble under madness and grief. He watched spirits vanish into Oblivion, never to be returned, never to be remembered – they were faceless, for not even Bunny could recall their names or what they even did. 

The humans…they were no longer _human_. They no longer had that which kept them human to begin with. They smiled, but there was no joy. There was no emotion. There was nothing but madness and rabid, manic instinct driven by something _other_. These things, no longer people. They were vessels now. Shells and shields, the perfect disguise, the perfect suit to slip into. 

Bunny blinked.

And suddenly stood before a gate. 

Massive in size, dwarfing even the mighty Red Wood trees. Hidden within an abyssal canyon, pressed despairingly against the rocky wall of a blackened wall of stone and dust. Ashes stained its wrought iron and petrified wood surface, glistening eerily with embers and persistent flames. Bunny gaped at the gate, the miles and miles of chains keeping the two doors from even so much as creaking. 

His feet burned in the ash and cinder that made up the canyon floor, but he could not move. His body refused to obey, paralyzed in a terrified stupor as the gate loomed over him. 

Bunny had never seen it before, but somehow he knew. This was no ordinary gateway. This was something far more sinister, something purely evil and malicious. This was something hidden deeply within the realm of Sleepy Hallow, guarded and kept locked by the Monarch of Monsters himself. This was the gateway to a _real_ Hell – not that place of fire, ash, and torture humans so liked to believe. This was not a doorway to some fire and ice realm of rings and devils.

This was the gateway that lead to the real monsters. 

This was the gate that held things that gave birth to Fearlings, to hatred and malice, to that which fed upon minds and bodies, worlds and galaxies. This was the door that contained a portal to the very End itself. 

And the gate lurched with a mighty _**bang**_. 

Bunny gasped, horrified, emotions not his own washing over him like a violent tidal wave. He screamed, but no sound escaped. Light, sound, _sanity_ – it was all swallowed by the great muzzle that was starting to come loose. The gate lurched again, chains snapping, ambers smothering under the frigid, otherworldly ice it exhumed. The gate shuddered, and arms the color of the void – not black, something darker, the color of that which absorbed your heart and mind and _sanity_ – clawed out from under the gate. The gnarled and indescribable limbs clawed at the cinders, pools of the same unnamable color spilling from the bottom of the gate like a breaking dam. 

Whispers. There were _whispers_ and _voices_ in his head. They spoke to him, taunted him, crooned to him and caressed and strangled his mind and heart. 

Bunny was still screaming, but he still could not utter a sound. His screams and terror fed the monstrous entities behind the gate. His voice stolen, his breath being sucked right out of him, he fed the primordial _things_ with his own mind and soul. He stood no chance.

Paralyzed, his entire mind crashing down on him, his breath stolen and his life twisting and bending and _breaking…_

An Angel whispered in his ear, gentle and warm, so very, very beautiful.

_**“I win…”** _

Agony exploded within Bunny’s skull, red flooding his vision. The silver bell laughter of an Angel assaulted his ears.

And he could not help but think, what a beautiful, ugly sound…

Time dropped the limp Pooka, ignoring the Fairy Queen’s screams of horrified terror, and North’s bellowing. Bunny slumped onto his knees, drool and blood dribbling from his mouth, moans and indistinguishable gibberish being muttered. He groaned, his throat hoarse from screaming – _from having his screams of terror and pain stolen_ – and his head…

Tooth screamed brokenly, one side of Bunny’s head completely caked in blood and stained tears. 

Time chuckled, turning his prize over in his bare hand. He gazed into the cloudy green iris, his long tongue peeking out of his lips delightfully. 

“I spy, with my little eyes…” he purred, “Something _delicious._ ”

He looked down at Bunnymund, ignoring the hysterical Tooth Fairy and the other, equally shaken, Guardians. The Pooka said and did nothing. He simply lied there, his one good eye staring ahead into nothingness, his chest slowly expanding and deflating with each calm, even breath he took. His feet and hands twitched occasionally, and his lips moved in low mutters of indistinguishable words and languages. 

Time chuckled again, holding the Pooka’s gouged eyeball between his index and middle finger. His soft, pale skin was painted red, the sleeve of his tunic stained with muddled red-brown. Above and behind him, Nature had her eyes closed, her breath shaky yet even, her fingers clenched shakily into her dress. Libra, though blindfolded, appeared to be looking away, a hand curled against her mouth, her complexion pale. The other spirits in the stands all refused to look at Time and his prize, all either having their eyes screwed shut, or their gazes averted completely. 

The surge of temporal power had drained them, frightened them all. Bunny’s screams, now forever carved within their minds and memories. It would follow some to their graves, and for others, it would haunt them for the entirety of their immortal lives. 

“Monster…!”

Time averted his sightless gaze off to the side. Tooth sat in a crumpled heap on the floor, shaking horribly, feathers having fallen from her distress and piled around her. She clutched so hard at the feathers of her biceps that she tore a few out, blood welting to the surface of the less mature plumage. She heaved and sobbed, gasping and rasping as she rocked.

“You’re a _monster…!_ ” she gasped. 

Beside her, Sandy couldn’t even make a move to stop her. His small hands had been pressed firmly against his ears since he had first heard Bunny start screaming. His eyes were screwed shut, and he had curled into a ball on the floor, head shaking no to anything and everything. He was shaking, his sands glowing a pale, almost greyish yellow color. 

Time smiled.

“ _Monster_ , dear Toothiana, is a relative term,” he said, “To a canary, a cat is a monster*. To an insect, a child’s shoe is a monster…”

His grin widened, and he brought the eyeball up to his lips like a ripe, delectable fruit. His lush lips softly touched its sticky white and red surface. 

“And to a little fairy, a mindless ape is a monster.” He chuckled, lips parting, teeth glistening, and fangs shimmering against rosy lips. 

“I wonder though, can Angels be monsters?” he asked.

He laughed, low and lovely, sinister and kind, innocent and devious. His tongue slipped out of his mouth like a beckoning serpent, curling over the bottom of Bunny’s eye. His mouth widened, lips stretching obscenely, and his teeth grazing the round saline surface teasingly. A low, breathy moan was heard as his tongue brought the eye into his mouth, rolling it to the back of his throat, the tip of his tongue licking blood from each of his five fingers. Sighing, his bare fingers touching his throat against the bulge of his prize, and following its path as he swallowed. Against the pale column of his throat and jugular, over his collar, down his narrow chest, and caressing down his belly. Stains of red blood were left in the wake of his sultry path down his torso, leaving ugly, rosy streaks on his virgin white garment. 

His nirvana was not the least bit disturbed by Tooth’s screaming, nor her sudden silence as she collapsed gracelessly onto her side. North’s retching and the smell of regurgitated whisky did nothing to break his euphoria. If anything, the sounds and smells seemed to heighten it. 

He licked his lips of the remains of teary saline and blood, his hand pressed against his belly and clutching the soft fabric of his tunic. Endless as his appetite was, the empty void of his gut seemed to rejoice, the eye rolling and settling into his body like a puzzle piece. 

He released a shaky, giddy breath, shuddering once, his knees pressing together weakly. He gave a breathy chuckle, his high dissipating, as he regarded the Pooka at his feet. 

His laugh was sultry and breathy, a sound that sent a pleasurable, yet frightening, shudder down every spine in the courtroom. His spell was unbreakable, even after such a gruesome show. He was still beloved, still revered and feared, and still desired. 

Such thoughts nearly felled the Angel, but he remained unconquered. 

Bending at the waist, he cupped Bunny’s chin with his bare hand, forcing the dazed and incoherent Pooka to look at him. His one remaining eye was unfocused, yet he somehow managed to zero in on Time’s face with a strange reverence that he never once practiced prior to now. He mumbled a bit more loudly, but Time shushed him with a croon.

“Poor thing,” he cooed, “It is such a shame it took such painful lessons for you to learn anything. But, that is all in the past now, isn’t it, pet?”

Weakly, just barely a twitch of the head, Bunny nodded. His blood and drool slipped over Time’s delicate fingers. But like before, he gave no sign of caring. His gentle touch was something to be feared, yet Bunny settled into it like a docile dog. 

Time’s thumb wiped away the bloody tears of his empty eye socket, his smile unrelenting.

“Does it feel better now? Being able to finally _see?_ ” he asked.

Again, Bunny nodded with a barely noticeable incline of his head. It was accompanied by a mumbling sound of affirmative. He swayed on his knees, his scarred and bald arm weakly pawing at the air, as if in the desire to touch. Time chuckled indulgingly, leaning down further until his lips were nearly pressed into the base of one of Bunny’s mutilated ears. He spoke softly and lowly, no one except Bunny able to hear what he was saying. Bunny nodded along to what he was saying – or perhaps Time was moving his head in the gesture? No one knew.

And despite all he witnessed, all he had heard, what he had seen being _shattered_ right before his very eyes, North somehow managed to gape and glare wrathfully at the Angel looming over his broken friend. 

He tried to speak, but his mouth refused to obey him, and his brain seemed to immediately forget what he wanted to say. His chains rattled almost pleasantly as his entire body shook. He had almost forgotten about the elves binding him and his colleagues. Except Bunny, who had been freed before Time had gouged out one of his eyes. Yet the Pooka expressed no anger. Whatever Time had shown Bunny, it was enough to shatter the already broken Pooka. And yet…

There was something there. A strange sort of awareness in Bunny’s remaining, hazy eye. There was no spark or flash of a perfectly sound mind, but there was something _other_ , something _more_ there. Something that doused that light, and replaced it with something stronger, yet without light. It was something that crept in the dark of space itself, something that crept under beds and hid in shadows. Something without form, name, or voice. 

And it _frightened_ North. 

Time suddenly stopped whispering and moved back from Bunny’s ear. The Pooka said nothing, but gave a final nod. Time chuckled, his gloved hand caressing Bunny’s cheek. North nearly gasped as Bunny leaned into the touch, rumbling drowsily. Time kissed his forehead chastely – the first kind gesture that befitted the humans’ image of his Angelic status. His hands slipped from Bunny, the Pooka leaning forward to chase the warm and soft hands, and stood up straight once more. 

He turned to face Libra, his feet somehow unsteady, the cogs that made up his arched heels somehow as unstable as they appeared.

“You will not have any issues with Bunnymund now,” he said, before turning his blind eyes onto Nature. Her eyes were open now, but her jaw was set and her fingers still clenched in her dress. She refused to meet his gaze. 

“I sadly must bid you all adieu. I have a few things to take care of back home…” he said, lips twitching in the faintest resistance of a Cheshire grin. 

Turning his head to North, he smiled. So warmly and gently, his lips blushing and face painted with a heavenly glow. North felt his heart – and his stomach – lurch. 

“Good luck, Guardians,” he purred.

And with a sweep of his cloak, he vanished in a warping waver of time and space, gossamer particles left behind in his wake. 

No one spoke. No one moved. Time had vanished from Libra’s court, but everyone somehow seemed frozen. 

Shaking, North finally moved, turning to look at the kneeling Pooka a few paces away from him. Bunny did not even look at him. He simply stared ahead into seemingly nothing. Yet the sheer focus of his gaze told North that he was seeing something that no one else could. His ears twitched, as if stifling the instinctual response to lock onto too many sounds all at once. His nose twitched, but there was no smell in the air. The puddle of bile in front of North had long since gone stale and settled, stagnant. 

Perhaps Bunny smelled his own blood. Perhaps he could taste the irony copper of his own life fluids. Perhaps he could feel the throbbing of his empty eye socket. Perhaps he could hear his friends’ frantic heartbeats.

Or perhaps, he did not. Perhaps he smelled and tasted nothing. Perhaps he felt nothing. And perhaps, just perhaps, he heard nothing but silence.

The silence was a roar…

The darkness was blinding…

The stillness was dizzying…

And the madness was _real…_

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes!
> 
> 1.) As per my last chapter, the Krampus here is HEAVILY influenced by the Krampus of his newest movie. Even his elves (which I have started to call Creeps) are also quite sinister looking, and in the movie have been seen wearing masks. I know Krampus' helpers have a different name and are not called Creeps (I think they're called Cherubs?) but Creeps came up before I did further research on him. So in other chapters where he might(?) appear, I'll be referring to his elves as Creeps. 
> 
> 2.) In an older chapter (Ch. 15, Fall), you may recall Nature activating her snake-vine and causing a sever reaction to Bunny's bound arm. The fur has yet to grow back - it is unlikely to grow back at all at this point - and the wounds have not closed up completely. 
> 
> 3.) Big thank you to KSclaw and MantaDrifter for giving me diverse spirit names for this!
> 
> 4.) Harley's influence and inspiration is being heavily revamped after Clopin - mostly from the Disney film. Harley, as a human, was born in Paris in a gypsy family, and supposedly mentored by a gypsy named Clopin. He adopted Clopin's last name until his transcendence into a spirit. He took Aprils as his surname, and Trouillefou as his middle name.
> 
> 5.) First rule of Sumi's OCs. NEVER assume they are of an obvious title. Harley is the Spirit of Forgiveness, NOT laughter or joy or whatever you may personify the April Fool as typically. I make a point in giving my OCs a pure and sensible substance, nothing obvious, but nothing so outlandish that it does not fit them. As it stands, laughter makes it so much easier to forgive and forget. 
> 
> 6.) Harley's bells, the Bells of Forgiveness, can only be wrung by those he so chooses to ring them, or by Harley himself. In anyone else's hands, they are silent, as if their bearings were removed. When you hear these bells, people are drained of wrath and ire, and suddenly filled with a sensation of tickling, their thoughts suddenly redirected to lighter times. This prompts laughter, and the release of negative emotions that prevent forgiveness. You may have heard them if you suddenly remember something funny out of nowhere, and try to resist the urge to smile and laugh. 
> 
> 7.) The aura of an Angel is very similar to an alluring glamor. For Time, his allure is very similar to a love-spell, an impulsive urge cast upon others to protect and cherish him, to worship and desire him. However, this allure is not glamor or a spell, and is something entirely other in an Angel. No one is certain as to what it is exactly. It is not an overly conscious power, but Time does have control over it. His moods seem to coincide with his allure. When he is excited and anxious, it strengthens like a musk or a heat. When he's in his 'default' mood (not happy, not bored, not angry, etc) it is lessened, but still present, like a lingering perfume. In this case, Time is VERY excited, and VERY anxious. This is making his allure extremely potent to others.
> 
> 8.) Unlike a typical glamor, Time's allure can be selective. He can make it so all but one person in a room is affected by it. In reality, he could have easily subdued Bunny and made the Pooka 'fall in love' with him. But that wouldn't be as much fun. Bunny's warped and twisted outlook and decimated logic also plays a part in his wrath and somewhat twisted desire for Time.
> 
> 9.) One memorable result of one of Time's games was the beginning of WW1 and WW2. Don't ask. 
> 
> 10.) I have said it many times, I'll say it again. My Father Time is a god damn SLUT. 
> 
> 11.) In my canon, Angels are 'born' with very intricate, non-corporeal markings, or tattoos, all over their body. They are typically silvery and contrast against an Angel's pale skin. No one knows the significance of the markings or runes - except the Angel itself.
> 
> 12.) Who here saw the animated Sinbad? Just me? Okay. XD
> 
> 13.) I think this is my third movie reference in this particular chapter. XD
> 
> ~S~


	23. BONUS: Forgive and Forget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did it again - I updated this on FF.net, and forgot to do so here on AO3. What is wrong with me? QwQ  
> Edited by FF's **The Fallen Angel of Pain**! Thank you!!
> 
> This bonus chapter is very short compared to previous chapters, and was once a part of the next official chapter. However the segment didn't seem to fit properly, so I decided to make the segment into a bonus chapter! 
> 
> Please enjoy!
> 
> ~S~

North’s Workshop was buzzing with activity and high elation. It had been weeks since Pitch’s banishment, and still, the Guardians were riding high on their victory. Drinks were shared, food was flying out of the kitchens in abundance. Even a few other spirits had been invited to the seemingly endless party. Though not many had shown up this time around – it was assumed that they eventually became ‘partied out’. 

Jack enjoyed the festivities, but had decided in a change in scenery when a more familiar spirit showed up on North’s doorstep. Now sitting on the floor out on one of the vast balconies, Jack was immersed in conversation with the surprise visitor, and a few of his dogs.

Harlequin Aprils, the herald of April Fool’s Day, laughed and swung his feet carelessly as he sat perched upon the balcony railing. He laughed even more as Jack was slobbered on by one of his dogs – a Golden Retriever-like canine with a colorful, tasseled collar and a bell. 

“Ew! Gross!” Jack laughed, despite getting a bit of dog slobber into his mouth. He scratched the blonde dog’s head, crossing his legs as the dog settled. 

“Hey Harley, can I ask you something?” he asked the other. Harley, adjusting the strings of his guitar, looked up at Jack at the question. He grinned.

“You just did.” He chuckled. Jack scoffed with a fond eye roll.

“You know what I mean, Frenchy,” he said. Harley laughed – an airy, free and unrestrained sound with a slight rasp to it. It was a pleasant sound to some, annoying to others.

“Go ahead, _petit pingouin_ ,” he said. Jack stuck his tongue out at Harley, before sobering.

“Why dogs?” he asked, petting the mentioned canine’s head. At the confused tilt of Harley’s head, Jack elaborated, “I mean, don’t get me wrong! I love your dogs. Kind of wish I had my own animal-helpers. But, I was just curious. Why are dogs your thing?”

“My thing?” Harley snorted, propping his guitar up against the balcony railing so he could lean over his knees to see Jack better.

Jack shrugged a bit helplessly. “I mean…Tooth has her fairies, and it fits her because…well, she’s the Tooth Fairy. North has his Elves – though they don’t make the toys evidently – and Bunny…he’s got walking eggs. So I guess I want to know what dogs are for you…like, why not hyenas? They laugh a lot, right?” 

Harley’s grin seemed to strain, stiffening just at the corners. His brows twitched in a barely concealed effort to avoid frowning, and his legs stopped swinging back and forth. He blinked once at Jack, the frost sprite awaiting an answer to his question. But when his question went unanswered for a few extra moments, he felt his resolve curl in on itself defensively. Rigid shyness and rueful tension coiled in his gut.

“I…I’m sorry, that was kind of rude. Um, n-never mind, forget I said anything!” He tried to laugh, but it failed utterly – at least to Harley. No one could hide from him, especially behind falsified carelessness and laughter. 

Jack’s sudden change in mood seemed to snap him out of his own resolve though, and the prodigal spirit immediately relaxed and held up a hand to Jack.

“ _Non_ , it’s fine! Really, it is…” he said with an easy smile. “I was just a bit surprised is all.” 

Sensing his friend’s honesty, Jack seemed to relax as well, muscles loosening. He fiddled with his staff out of a long-ingrained nervous habit, absently petting the dog with his other hand. The canine sniffed at his sleeve, floppy ears perking slightly. 

“How come you’re surprised?” he inquired. 

Harley opened his mouth, as if to speak, but then he paused. His mouth closed, and his brows creased thoughtfully. His eyes seemed to take in the colorful collared canines, each off doing their own thing by now. Two were lounging in the warmth of the waning orange-yellow sun, oblivious to everything around them. One was digging in some snow that had piled up on the balcony, as if searching for buried treasure. Two more were eying the snack table just a few feet away from the balcony door inside – but due to Bunny’s innate fear of dogs, they were not allowed inside. The last one, plopped down beside Jack, nearly dwarfing the small winter sprite, looked back at Harley with large brown eyes. Its mouth hung open as it panted lightly, lips pulled back in a large, dopey smile. 

Harley’s shoulders dropped slightly, and he smiled back at the dog. He slid off the balcony and sauntered over to Jack, plopping down beside him in a similar crossed-legged position. The dog huffed and lumbered over to Harley, presenting its head to him to be petted and scratched. 

“Hyenas laugh a lot, yes…” he began, seemingly side-stepping Jack’s recent question, “But they do not have what dogs have. Laughter isn’t my trademark, Jack.”

Jack blinked. “You’re the April Fool though. You love making people laugh. Or annoying the crap out of them.”

Harley chuckled mirthfully. “I admit, that is true. But, in truth, do you think my only purpose in life is to annoy people to make others, and myself, laugh?”

Jack seemed taken aback, blinking a bit dumbly at the question. Harley shrugged, not waiting for an answer. He petted his dog’s head, looking out into some middle distance before him. 

“Dogs are something I relate to and admire,” he said, “Because they forgive so easily.”

“What?” Jack asked, not understanding. Harley shrugged.

“When you laugh, you often forget about what angers you, what makes you sad, and what hurts you. You forget those things in a single instant of laughter. And when you are done laughing, you seem to realize that there is no point in begrudging something that may have happened, or was said…

“You decide to forgive in that moment, and then you forget. You forgive yourself, or another person. You move on, lighter than air, relieved of such useless burdens. And you continue to smile, and to laugh, and eventually, as time goes on, you learn to forgive and forget more easily.” 

His hand stilled upon the dog’s head, and came down to fiddle with the bells tied to a belt-loop of his pants. The silver orbs, no larger than a walnut, tinkled pleasantly and distantly, as if echoing into the distance. Jack shuddered, a tickling sensation creeping up his throat, the muscles around his mouth twitching, his heart jumping. 

Harley deftly untied the cluster of bells and held them in his hand, gazing down at them fondly. He looked at the tarnished, silvery bells like they were the first treasure he had received, and the last gift he would ever receive. 

“Dogs don’t need to laugh, but they smile,” he said, “They smile, and forgive. They never hate, they never scorn, nor do they hold grudges. If someone were to hit a dog, yes, they would be hurt. But regardless, they would no sooner smile and forgive…”

Beside him, the dog flopped down and laid its head in Harley’s lap, whining in a needy manner. Harley laughed, going back to scratching his dog’s head. 

“I have dogs as my wards because they represent everything I want to be, and everything I want to give to humans, and spirits,” he said. “The ability to forgive, forget, and to smile and laugh, no matter how bleak things may look.” 

Jack blinked again, awed, yet a pang rung in his heart. He would not know what it was until many years down the line. It would take him fifty years to realize what he was feeling, and only a few days more to realize why it was there. 

“I may make people laugh, but only because it allows them to forgive and be happier.”

He looked over at Jack with his full, lopsided smile. 

“I give and embody forgiveness, Jack.”

_“What do **you** give to the world?”_

A jolt of limbs, and a spike of emotion. Like a shock of electricity, a sharp tingle shot through Jack’s arms and legs, and ominously tickled his heart into a skipping beat. He stared wide-eyed up at the sky, breath steady, yet his lungs felt compressed. His fingers twitched, nails digging into the dirt and roots of the tree he fell asleep under. 

His hands unknowingly shook, and a dull, throbbing ache bloomed in his chest. Slowly, he sat up, a hand coming up to press against his chest. He felt around his bony sternum, as if checking for injury. None were found, yet still, his heart keened and quivered. 

_‘That dream…where did it come from…?’_ he wondered.

Why had he dreamt of that day, so long ago? Weeks after Pitch’s defeat fifty years ago, and his coming to be a Guardian…finding a place he thought he belonged, with a family he thought he had. With his Guardianship came more spirits finally seeing him, finally asking his name. Among them, Harley had been the first to come out and greet him, their scarce hellos and passing glances now evolving into something more. He had a friend in the fool, and during their seemingly endless celebration, Harley had dropped by to see Jack, bringing a few of his dogs with him.

_“Why dogs?”_

Jack groaned, face landing in an open palm with a rueful, self-loathing laugh. Why dogs…he only seemed to realize then just who and what Harley was. 

_“Because they forgive so easily.”_

“God…” Jack rasped, wanting to both laugh, but also wanting to scream. 

Harley had practically told him outright what he did and gave to the world. And yet, in the true Jack Frost fashion, the moment he felt that stinging emotion in his chest, he had buried and ignored any thought of asking more. He had completely dismissed and dropped the subject like burning coals the moment he realized that he was so much _lesser_ than Harley. 

Jealousy; that had been what he felt. Jealousy, anger, and that nagging, soul-crushing self-doubt. All of it had merged into a writhing, miserable beast that had touched its diseased hand to his heart that day. And the moment he felt it, Jack closed the conversation with yet another fake smile, a laugh, and a flippant acknowledgement of understanding. 

He had almost forgotten about the wane smile Harley made, and the pity scarcely hiding in his eyes as he looked at Jack. He had left not too long after…and Jack had never once thanked him for opening up so readily and trustingly to another spirit who was still very much a stranger to him. To share your very heart and soul, to speak of and expose who you were inside…a spirit cherished and guarded their cores jealously and adamantly. Yet when Harley had laid out his heart and soul, after Jack simply asked a vague question, Jack himself had put up his walls, waved it off, and pretended the other was little more than a ‘regular’ spirit compared to a Guardian. 

He forgot, but he did not forgive. He blatantly spat on what Harley offered to give him freely. Like a dog looking to please a human, expecting absolutely nothing in return, he smiled and offered to allow Jack to forgive himself, and to forget about and let go of the mild pains starting to germinate and sprout in his heart. 

He sighed, leaning back into the tree, hands tightening around the black staff he held in his lap. His fingers gently brushed over its gnarled wooden surface, trying to find those golden gossamer embers hiding within its twisted creases and knots. 

_‘Is that when those weeds started growing?’_ he wondered, _‘Or had it been sooner?’_

No voice answered him back – he did not expect it, but he found the habit of asking himself these questions to be helpful in his self-examinations. 

A croon was heard above him. Jack looked up at the lowest branch nearest to him. The starry-eyed owl cocked its head, white feathers rustling, and expression inquiring. His lips thinned, eyes never leaving his new companion. 

“Take her with you,” Sorrows had said. “She can help guide you to your next goal.”

Jack sighed, eyes sliding shut once more. And still, his heart throbbed and quivered, a heated sensation prickling behind his eyes. His brows scrunched, and he shook his head harshly to clear the sudden aches and whirling, nameless emotions. He brought a hand up to scrub against his heated eyes.

“God, what is wrong with me…?” he muttered. 

Above him, the owl crooned, as if inquiring to Jack. The frost sprite took in a deep breath, and released it. The burning ache in his chest receded, but not entirely. There was still a dull throbbing left in his heart, and a shaky tightness in his throat. But he paid it no mind, and instead turned his gaze skywards.

It was getting dark. The sky was still cloudy and murky, but even still, the Moon could peer through at any time.

Rocking back, Jack lurched forward and rolled up onto his feet. He stretched, joints and back popping stiffly. He sighed and shook his shoulders, picking up his staff and turning to face the owl.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

The owl made a low, raspy noise, before she flew down and perched upon the arched ‘S’ atop the staff. She croaked at Jack firmly, and he grinned.

“Course you are, you never sleep…” he muttered jokingly. A last peek up at the sky, and the frost sprite reached back to pull up the hood of his black hoodie. It was not hard to guess who he was, even with a differently colored hoodie and the hood up, but he supposed it gave him an extra sense of security. 

He scanned the area – just along the Black Sea, a short flight from the well to Sorrows’ garden – and once determined it was safe, took to the sky.

“Back to the Pole, Wind,” he said.

Without hesitation, the wind carried Jack back towards the north. His owl companion leaped soundlessly from the staff and rode the whirling draft that carried her ward just behind and above him. 

The acrid stench of sea rot and the decaying stink of a dead town slowly left them behind as they raced to beat the rise of the Moon. They had a number of countries to cross, and seas to traverse, and Jack was determined to reach North’s Workshop without a hitch. 

But even with his new steel resolve, and his heart now free of the parasitic weeds and toxic emotions, he still felt a pang. 

And somewhere in his mind, he would try to recall the sound of Harley’s laugh. But it only grew fainter and fainter, fading into a distant history he did not yet know he was to be a part of…

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _  
> **Harlequin Trouillefou Aprils.**  
>  _   
>  _Harley was born at an unknown date in Paris, France in 1831. He was orphaned early on in life, and as a very young boy on the streets, was taken in by a band of gypsies. He was raised and taught under their care, and became a close companion and student to the Gypsy King, Clopin Trouillefou. His manner of death is currently unknown, but his body and loyal canine companion had been thrown into The Seine. He was 21._
> 
>  
> 
> _~S~_


	24. Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, this update took a while. Sorry folks, I kind of hit a motivational road block. Sorry about that! Explanation is below.
> 
>  **BIG NOTICE! PLEASE READ!** I’m preparing to go to school and take my associates classes, and I’ve been kind of busy with all that. Anxiety is eating at me too, considering I start school on the 29th! That being said, this may be the last update on my free time. I’m going to school full time (four classes, each spanning over five days of the week) so barring weekends, my writing time will be cut down. Fear not though! I oddly have more writing energy when I’m busy working or in school, as supported by the dozens of notebooks I wrote fanfics in during high school. So just fair warning to you all.
> 
> Edited by **The Fallen Angel of Pain** of FF.net!
> 
> Enjoy!

The countryside of Vienna, Austria was not a place Jack often visited. Most of the Eastern region, to him, was too warm or humid, full of bustling and cramped cities he could not quite seem to find much appeal to. But the few times he traversed the Eastern countries, he could very often find hidden gems of land, forests, and bodies of water. This close to the western side of the continent, the air was cooler, not as stifled by the hazy breath of larger cities. 

He was miles away from the border between Austria and the Czech Republic, nearing Germany, and afterwards, his second leg of the journey to the North Pole. His Wind blasted him through Romania and Hungary, and if he really pushed it, he would hit the United Kingdom in a matter of a couple of hours. 

His owl companion did not seem the least bit deterred by the journey, nor the almost violently pressing Wind pushing them on at Jack’s urging. But then again, she was obviously no ordinary owl – certainly no mortal owl either. 

Every now and again, Jack peered over his shoulder and at the Snowy Owl. And each time, her starry-eyed gaze would be locked ahead, as if oblivious to Jack’s mild concern. Her wings were steady and silent, a splash of white that followed Jack not unlike a strange, misfit mockery of a dark shadow. 

He peered up at the sky. So far they were barely managing to chase the sun westward, but with each hour that passed, their nearly endless dusk grew darker and darker, the sun slowly but surely beating them in their race. The Moon would be upon them soon, and Jack was not sure he could hide from it. The Wind could only carry them for so long, and eventually they themselves would have to stop at least once to regain their bearings. 

Jack felt his hands tighten around his staff and the strap of his bag. The cold, gnarled wood of his staff brought him little to no comfort, and almost seemed to instigate unease in him. But within the worn bag over his shoulder, he could feel the other staff – Pitch’s staff, now. The warm energy within its core percolated into his hand and up his arm, tingling his frigid blood and tickling the fine hairs on the back of his neck. 

Sorrows, the Guardian of Pitch’s Eden, of his very heart, had been a saving grace. A painful one, but a much needed one. After awakening from his trip into his own heart, defeating the parasitic entity of his former self, and restoring his own heart and soul, he had had no idea what to do or say. All he could do was sit there on that altar and cry soundlessly. He had felt like a newborn lamb; helpless, clumsy, shaky on his own limbs, and so very, very scared. His heart now cleansed of the weeds, he felt unstable, stripped naked of his former shields. 

But like any attentive gardener, Sorrows was there to coax him from his resolve – like a fairy singing a tightly closed flower to bloom, her voice grounded him. He had been confined to that suffocating cocoon for so long, she had been amazed he wasn’t feeling worse. 

It had quite possibly been the most enlightening, yet the most frightening thing Jack had ever felt. 

“I can do no more for you,” she had said sadly, “I cannot leave the Eden, not without just cause. I must stay and guard his heart, and do whatever I can do keep him and our siblings alive.”

“What do I do now though…?” Jack had rasped, still shaking from the whole experience. 

Sorrows had seemed to hesitate. “There is nothing you can do now – not until you break that last chain binding you. You must help yourself, before you can truly help our King.”

She had then looked to Jack’s bag. She had wandered over to it, hands falling loosely to her sides. Picking up the bag – and completely ignoring Jack’s icy crook – she had brought it back over to Jack and handed it to him.

“It will protect you,” she had said.

At first, Jack had wanted to ask her what she meant, what ‘it’ was that would protect him. But it very quickly had become apparent to him as his hands took the strap of his bag. That warm, familiar, gentle and dark energy seemed to coil up and around his wrist like a snake warmed by the sun. Pitch’s staff – the heirloom left to Jack himself. One of the people who had hurt him and his children so much, who had helped to break the world itself, taken lives, taken so many mortal and immortal souls…

“Why?” That was all he could have asked. 

And Sorrows, a woman of few words but many answers, could only smile sadly. 

“Because he cannot hate you, Frostling,” she had said, “Because he can forgive just as well as he can love.” 

In the past, such words would have had Jack fleeing for his very sanity. Had he still been infected with those weeds, and that clawing and keening parasite, he would have fought tooth and nail to twist and bend those words into something to be feared, something to hate, to resent and to flee from. Instead of treating it like the painful yet relieving tonic it was, he would have turned such kind, and cruel, words into a poison he had to avoid. 

Medicine that cures and aids in sickness is often bitter and caustic. Jack had to silently laugh at the irony. Because apparently words and heartfelt feelings could be just like medicine; hard to swallow, bitter on the tongue, and often leaving an aftertaste as a reminder of its caustic touch. But it healed. 

Perhaps Jack had simply been that sick child who refused to take his medicine. It certainly seemed to fit. 

A screech, and Jack veered his head around. His companion – he had to figure out a name for her eventually – finally seemed to give him her attention. She screeched again, wings flapping once almost urgently. Jack blinked, and looked down.

He squinted to see the ground and to find a sign of where they were. And when he finally managed to locate a large highway sign with names of roads and highways written in the native language, he cursed.

“Damn it…” Prague. How in the world did he end up in Prague? He must have veered off North while lost in thought, having left Austria entirely and ending up in a detour through the Czech Republic. 

Jack stopped and hovered in midair, his companion cupping her wings in a way that allowed her to hover almost motionlessly with the aid of the Wind’s whirling current. She did not even give Jack’s convenient staff a glance. 

The frost sprite looked around, having not only blown off course, but also having descended enough to see most of the small towns and city below him. The sprawling capital of Prague looked completely abandoned, every light having gone out in the ancient city. Jack could not hear or see any cars or human activity. He oddly did not smell much in the ways of pollution or any other stench related to war and famine. But there was something in the air here, a scent that was familiar, but he could not put his finger on what it was…

He looked skyward once more, and again cursed. Because of his detour, they had lost perhaps four hours of time, and the sun had long since vanished over the horizon. The sky was blackening, a gradient of yellow, orange, purple, blue and black starting to sink over the skyline. Stars were starting to blink to life behind some of the haze and smog trapped in the upper zones of the atmosphere, but it would not be enough to hide Jack from the Moon. It would appear any minute now. 

“We have to find cover somewhere…” he said.

The owl made no sound of acknowledgement, but did seem to agree with Jack. The frost sprite looked around at the city, eyes narrowed as he tried to pinpoint some place he could hunker down in until the Moon passed over them. There were certainly plenty of places to choose from, and he doubted any children they may come across would see him, or pay him any mind.

Such a thought once would have frightened and enraged him. But now, he was somewhat hopeful no one paid him any mind, despite the bare feet, towering staff, strange owl, and frigid wind that seemed to follow him. 

“Come on, we can’t stay up here,” he said.

The Wind obeyed his wordless command, and swiftly yet steadily carried Jack and his companion down in a steady descent. 

As they drew closer to the ground, the strange, and now very unpleasant, smell grew stronger. And by the time they passed the tallest building nearest them, Jack cringed and had to cover his mouth with his hoodie sleeve. His feet touched down on the dirty road of a very abandoned street, and the owl landed on a dead lamp post. He looked around the street.

Empty. Completely and utterly abandoned. Not a single home or building was lit or showed any signs of life. The streets were empty, but littered with garbage, and what appeared to be many items of random choosing. Numerous cars were packed bumper to bumper in the middle of the streets, as if they were abandoned during a traffic jam. The smell seemed stagnant, but potent, seemingly coming from all around them. 

He could not name it, despite the familiarity of it. He thought back to the rot of the beach of the Black Sea, of the many dead fish and marine life. It was similar to that, but without any of the oceanic rot that followed the stench of decaying sea-matter. It almost smelled like stale dust, but with some other that he could not name.

The owl crooned lowly, feathers ruffling. Her head turned from side to side to look down either end of the street. She seemed agitated, beak open slightly in what could have been a grimace if she had a more human-like mouth. 

Jack paid her no mind though, and instead looked up and down the street. He flinched when what sounded like the slam of a door caught his and the owl’s attention. Both turned to look down a small alley just behind them, Jack gripping his staff in a defensive grip.

But he soon relaxed. It was in fact a door, but it looked like the jamb was broken, and it was flapping back and forth at the mischievous urging of a draft pacing up and down the alley. The building it led into did not look like it was inhabited.

Jack bit his lip.

“It’s going to have to do…” he muttered.

Cautiously, he shuffled for the door, and caught its broken, rusty hand on the hook of his staff. He gently pushed it back and open, and peered inside.

His assumption of abandonment seemed to be correct. The room was large, and appeared to have once been a shop. Though the few windows were boarded up, there was just enough light from the growing dusk to peer in through the cracks and showcase what the building used to be. Dust motes floated aimlessly through the faint shafts of waning light, like tiny phantoms of fairies lost in their own limbo. 

Despite having been boarded up long ago, the shop was in disarray. A thick, stagnant layer of dust covered every available surface. The few pieces of furniture were threadbare and decayed, ravaged by Time himself in a vicious attack of age. A few wooden chairs were splintered and laying useless on the floor, legs broken and termite-bitten. 

Jack took one step inside, barely withholding a cringe as the warped wooden floor creaked ever so slightly. The sound was reminiscent of a dying dog, starved and beaten, bemoaning its further abuse under his almost weightless form. Jack swallowed thickly, his heel keeping the door open and from slamming. His owl companion waited atop the propped open door, feathers slightly flared, and head swiveling to and fro. She seemed on guard, suspicious. 

Jack though, after standing halfway in the shop for a good few minutes, decided it was safe. He looked up at the owl and got her attention.

“Come on,” he said, jerking his head inside.

The owl made a low, almost growling sound. But nevertheless, she gracefully hopped from her perch, and silently glided into the shop. She landed atop a display table, invoking a faint cloud of dust into rising like a misty cloud. Jack stepped in, and gently shut the door behind him. 

Darkness submerged them, with only the faint breaking of dying evening light slipping in through the boarded windows and cracks in the walls. Jack squinted into the darkness, suddenly on edge. Against his better judgement, he lit up his staff with the faintest of blue light. The owl made an almost annoyed sound, her eyes squinting against the light almost in offense. Jack frowned at her.

“Well sorry, but I don’t have your night-vision,” he grumbled. 

The owl only huffed, her head turning to look about the room. Jack did the same, sweeping his staff along as he quietly scanned the interior.

The shop appeared to be a souvenir shop. Trinkets of various kinds littered the still standing tables, counters, and displays. The glass displays though were either broken into and empty, or their exterior blurred and frosted by dust, debris, and Time’s cruelty. Shelves boasting bug-eaten wooden figures loomed over Jack like sickly, ominous entities. But when he made it to the back of the room, a simultaneous flash of pinpoint lights caught his attention and had him startling back.

But he soon calmed, and looked upon the items now presented to him in curious fascination. 

“Clocks…” he said softly, inching closer to the workbench and counter that help intact and disassembled clocks and parts. 

The counter was a half-square, C-shape with one end meeting the back wall. It sat just within the alcove of a staircase that curved up from the landing and led up into a loft, or perhaps an apartment or another part of the shop. The workbench behind the counter was wooden; a heavy, sturdy beast with many shelves, hooks, tools, and an uncountable number of clock parts. The wall behind it was cramped and filled with various hanging clocks, while the counter and display case held standing or novelty clocks and watches. 

Not a single one of them were running. 

Every single clock face that once held expressions of time itself, was frozen and still. Not a single tick or tock was heard, their metronome voices now silenced and held in a dusty chokehold.

Jack withheld a cringe. The cold, glassy faces of the clocks seemed to mock him, reminiscent of the blank gazes of a corpse. Or the curious, blind and unreadable gaze of Time himself. 

He turned away from them, and faced the staircase. It would be hours before the Moon passed over them, and he wondered if there was perhaps a bed or couch that was intact enough to use for some rest. 

He suddenly paused, blinking bright blue eyes. He snorted and guffawed. 

“My god…” he rasped, his palm covering his eyes. 

He was hiding from the god damn _Moon_. The very thing that brought him back to life as a spirit.

He never thought he would see the day where he would be _avoiding_ the Moon. He had spent three hundred years trying to get the attention of the Moon’s inhabitant. He had spent almost his entire spirit life wanting something, anything, of the Moon’s attention and to hear his voice. Left with nothing but his name, he had felt forsaken, lost. If he wasn’t trying to get humans to see him, he was trying to get the Moon to give him a sign of acknowledgement. 

And now here he was, fifty years later, and he wanted absolutely nothing to do with that stifling, silvery disk. 

Jack laughed again, but it was anything but humorous. The irony was sickening, blasphemous almost. He had never realized how crushed and suffocated he felt under the Moon. And it had taken him until now to realize just how much he did not want to have anything to do with it. 

That scrutiny, that suffocation, that cruel glow in the silence…he found himself comparing it to the warmth he felt from Pitch and his staff. How careful and gentle it was, yet how powerful and overwhelming it seemed to be. It was something so much bigger than him, so much bigger than the Moon. But he did not fear it crushing or harming him. He did not fear its oppression, nor its heat. Despite his ice and brittle emotions, Jack felt safer under its unknown abyss, than under the light of the Moon itself. 

It made Jack wonder if this was what it was like to truly miss someone.

_Thump!_

Jack gasped, shuffling back and bringing his staff to his front. The owl perked up and flared her feathers, making a low, growling sound. They stared at the staircase, Jack’s heart leaping into his throat. He clenched his jaw and slowly looked up at the ceiling. The wood above them creaked, dust and rotted wood flaking from the dull thud heard above them. 

The ceiling creaked in protest as someone – or something – pressed its weight upon the other side. More dust and splinters fell from the ceiling, landing soundlessly on the floor or on the furniture. 

It might as well have been flakes of scorching embers, for all the sensation of burning Jack could feel as the tiny flecks touched his shoulders and hair. His heart seemed to choke and stutter, pounding against his ribs like a frantic inmate trying to escape the lion’s den. 

More creaking as the entity above them moved across the second floor. No other sound was heard though. Just the ominous, ear-splitting creaking. Jack heard no footsteps, no shoes, not even the softer pads of an animal. It moved over him like a slow and deliberate cloud, roiling and unpredictable, dangerous in its power and unknown motive. 

Jack gasped as it suddenly stopped just above the clock workstation. Still as a glacier, but perhaps as brittle and precarious as a half-melted icicle, Jack made not a sound nor a move. The owl seemed just as, if not more, soundless and lifeless. One would think she was a stuffed toy at a glance. The intensity of her large, round eyes were the only tell to her otherwise lifeless stance and stare. Jack vaguely envied her ability of stillness and silence, that ability to blend seamlessly into the background without anyone noticing or feeling any the wiser. 

A full minute passed before Jack felt even safe enough to breathe – he hadn’t even realized he had been holding his breath. He released the stale, frigid air from his lungs in a shaky sigh through his nose, his fingers loosening just the tiniest bit around his staff. It faintly occurred to him that he should have turned out its light when he first heard something moving above him.

 _‘A bit late for that now…’_ he thought bitterly. 

He looked over at his companion, brows raising in question. He gestured stiffly and faintly towards the stairs with his staff. The owl, still as she had ever been, seemed to click her neck a tiny fraction to look at the stairs. She said and did nothing, but her feathers did seem to bristle somewhat in uncertainty. Or perhaps agitation. 

Jack bit his lip, not for the first time wishing for someone to speak up and tell him what to do. He could go outside and leave the building, but that would expose him to the Moon. Being seen by Manny would be a dangerous, if not precarious option; he could alert the Guardians of where Jack was, and even demand they bring him back to North’s Workshop. 

Or he could do something worse; he could speak to Jack, and try to convince him to go back on his own. And despite all that had happened at the Eden, all he had seen and heard from Sorrows, all he had felt in his heart…

No, Jack did not trust himself to not listen to Manny. Not yet anyways. Something was telling him he wouldn’t have a choice if he went outside and was seen. Some deeply ingrained instinct he could not name reared up and screamed at Jack to not go outside. He would not stand a chance. He could not risk it. He would not have a _choice_ if Manny saw him.

His staff throbbed in his hand, startling the frost sprite from his resolve. Its light flickered, and electric-blue sparks danced over its surface. Jack almost dropped the staff like a ticking time-bomb. But the electrical current seemed to lock his hands and had him tightening his fingers around it. He swallowed, shuddering once. 

He couldn’t leave. Not when it was still night, not when the Moon hung above him like a precarious guillotine ready to take his head off. 

He moved towards the stairs, feet light and soundless. He must not have been alone in his conclusion, because his owl companion had soundlessly glided over and landed on the chipped railing of the staircase. He bit his tongue, somehow both comforted by her presence, yet also wondering if it attested to how bad of an idea it was for him to go up the stairs alone. 

His foot landed on the first step cautiously.

_Crrr…_

Jack hissed, but no sooner cringed and clamped his mouth shut. A pause, but with no other sound following after his first step, Jack peered up the stairwell. He saw nothing but the underside of the higher wooden steps, and a few shafts of dim light funneling dust motes and empty air overhead. 

Mentally willing himself to be weightless, Jack pushed onwards. A few steps didn’t creak or make much of a sound. Others might as well have been screaming bloody murder, sending his unease spiraling. With each step, his heartrate increased, and that writhing sensation in the pit of his stomach became heavier. He almost laughed; it was almost like a cheesy scene out of a horror movie. He absurdly recalled his lonely days prior to becoming a Guardian. Of how, with the advantage of his invisibility and unheard voice, he would sneak into theaters to watch movies. At almost every horror movie he saw, he would scream at the idiot girl – or boy – approaching the source of their haunting, despite shaking in terror, despite the obvious course of action they needed to take, but didn’t. He recalled yelling out how stupid they were, and how dumb the movie was – if something was scaring you that much, and it could obviously hurt you, why go up and confront it? Why not run like any _normal_ person would?

Such outbursts had mostly been for his own amusement, but perhaps a part of him had hoped someone would hear him and agree with him at the time. No one had answered back, or told him to shut up.

Yet here he was, that main character of a horror movie, and he was being just as stupid as those humans on the big-screen. Walking straight towards something he had no concept or image of, without name, and with the possibility that it could hurt him. 

_‘You dumbass…’_ he thought, _‘Don’t go up there! There’s a monster up there, what are you doing?! You don’t know what it is or what it could do to you!’_

He ignored the shouting echo of his former self from so long ago. Perhaps he was trying to psych himself out, to convince himself to turn around and take his chances outside. 

Or perhaps the words were empty. Perhaps he was just using his own past as a voice to fall back on. He didn’t know.

He did know, however, that he was now on the top landing of the stairs. He blinked, stunned that he had made it up so quickly. His owl companion sat on the decorative pole supporting the top railing, both looking into the spacious room. 

It appeared to be a loft apartment. The owner of the shop must have lived right above it. The stairs apparently led into a den of some kind, the other side taken up by a small kitchenette. The room was smaller than the shop below, halved by a wall separating the other half of the loft into what was possibly a bedroom. 

The den was empty, only boasting the same conditions as the room below. Decayed and aged furniture, moth eaten cushions and rugs, faded pictures, a cold fireplace. The windows to the den and even the kitchen were boarded up, a few cracks stuffed with torn linens and cloth. The door to the supposed bedroom was only open a shy crack of an inch.

Nothing and no one was here, except Jack and his owl. 

Jack felt his shoulders drop, his entire body unlocking. The anxiety and adrenaline soon drained from him, and was soon replaced with throbbing aches and sore, locked muscles. He groaned, rubbing his forehead with a palm. 

“Maybe it was the floor starting to give out…?” he mumbled. 

No answer, which struck him as both unsurprising, but also odd. Sometimes the owl would at least acknowledge Jack with a coo or a low mumble. 

The frost sprite felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand, and he slowly turned to look at his companion.

She wasn’t looking at him, nor was she looking into the den like he was. She was looking off to the side and into the small kitchen – more specifically, at the door of a pantry beside the fridge. It was cracked open ever so slightly, a single, fat line of opaque black wedged between the door and the jamb. 

Jack withheld a shudder, that creeping, spidery sensation climbing up his spine and dropping a knotted ball of nausea into his writhing gut. He felt bile starting to rise up into his throat, and he weakly swallowed it back. 

“Who…?” He snapped his mouth shut, teeth clicking. He mentally scolded himself for trying to speak up to whatever may be in the pantry.

But no response was made, something that both confused and agitated Jack. 

Inhaling shakily through his nose, Jack stared into the cupboard, and a slithering stream of nitrogen trickled down his spinal cord. The solid blackness of the pantry stared at him, hollow and lifeless, yet it seemed to breathe all its own. Shapes danced over his eyes, taking the shadows and twisting them into an endless number of forms. His brain screamed at him, twisting with frantic emotions and instincts. The shadows played with Jack’s very sanity.

There was someone in the pantry. It stared back at him with eyes as black as the void, calculating, taking him apart piece by piece. It stood tall and looming, hunched inside the cupboard like the broken-backed beasts of nightmares. It breathed, it stared, it analyzed Jack like a cat studying an oblivious mouse. 

Someone was here, someone was _here_ , and he was staring _right at_ him and loomed and judged and-

_Clank!_

Jack gasped, shuffling back and staff pointing at the pantry. The source of the noise became obvious – and ridiculous – as it rolled out from the crack of the pantry door, stopped in the middle of the dirty linoleum, and sat there.

The empty can with a vaguely distinguishable image of mixed vegetables seemed to mock Jack, its harmless, hollow form innocuous and harmless. 

Jack felt he might laugh. Or possibly cry. Or maybe even scream in rage. But he did not, he was too stunned and apathetically exasperated to express anything above his cold, mildly stunned countenance. Not even the owl had reacted to hearing or seeing the can. Her feathers had fluffed up a bit when she heard it fall from its shelf, but she had made no other outward reaction. 

Again, Jack felt a bit of envy for her stoic calm, and not for the first time wished for such self-control of his emotions and physical reactions. 

Jack only sighed and dropped his shoulders. 

“God, I’m as paranoid as Bunny now…” he said. He glared at the can angrily. And with a slightly childish sense of resolve, he kicked it until it rolled across the floor and over to the door of the apartment’s bedroom. It clanged faintly against the jarred door.

And as if the silence before had been a roar, everything fell into an even deeper, louder hush. The air seemed to hold its breath, the dust motes freezing in their lazy drift across beams of light. Ice filled Jack’s lungs, creeping up his throat and spearing his tongue. Time itself seemed to shush all around it, grasping any semi-living entity by its throat and ceasing its weaker silence. 

And then Jack _heard it._

_Creak…_

The sound of moaning, aging wood nearly deafened Jack. His knees nearly gave out when it was followed by what sounded like the guttural growl of a bear. 

Jack nearly gagged, as a smell he had not once noticed suddenly assaulted his nose and strangled his lungs. It was a scent he had faintly, just barely smelled outside. It was similar to the smell of the sea-rot of the Black Sea. It stank of decay and rot, of something sinister, vile, _mad._

His feet moved of their own accord, possessed by a twisted hybrid of fear and uncertainty. He faced the bedroom door, hands back on his staff, the curved hook pointed at the door. Its light had miraculously remained, but it somehow dimmed ever so slightly as he neared the door.

The smell made his guts churn and his blood curdle. His joints screamed, his muscles groaned and writhed in spasms. Yet he somehow managed a jerk of his arms, knocking his staff against the door, and allowing it to drift open.

The source of the smell became all too obvious, and Jack felt his hand flying to his mouth – whether to protect his senses from the assaulting odor, or to keep himself from screaming, he did not know. 

But it was not the mutilated and decayed body upon the bed that made Jack’s throat contract and spit bile onto his tongue. It was the beast looming over and _eating_ the body. 

Growling lowly, the giant, Grizzly Bear-sized beast dug its trunk into the body’s abdominal cavity. Its overgrown, blood-stained tusks pierced rotted organs, releasing more of the pungent stink, but still it sunk its broken, dull teeth into them. Congealed blood and fluids seeped between its yellowed teeth and blackened gums, entrails hooked and hanging from its tusks like tinsel. Stump-toed feet pressed into the body’s jelly-filled limbs, bending decayed bone and rupturing dead arteries and veins until the bed was stained and painted like a murder-scene. 

“B-…Baku…!” Jack gasped.

His entire frame shook, and faint confusion lit up within the swirling emotions of disgust and terror.

What in the world was the Baku doing so far away from China and Japan*? It almost never came this far east without good reason! What was it doing here in Prague, and why was it _eating…?!_

 _‘There’s no sign of life here…’_ he thought. _‘There are no people here. They fled for some reason. That smell is all over this block, maybe the entire city…!’_

The people who did not manage to escape never left the city, he realized. They never would now. The Baku had lost his mind, his very sanity eaten by the maddened nightmares he himself once ate. He had been consumed by the nightmares he once hunted*. 

And as if sensing his very thoughts, the Tapir-like Chimera* lifted its great head, lips frothing and stained with blood and rot, and turned to Jack. 

The frost sprite felt his spine lock up into a straight line, legs freezing at the knees. He felt the blood drain from his face, and bile rise up into his throat. He choked and gagged, eyes watering as his stomach both simultaneously tried to force its contents up, and keep it from coming up and stifling the rest of his body. 

The Baku growled, baring its teeth at Jack. Its beady, cloudy eyes shone with eerie disks of white and yellow. Snot and mucus dripped from its short trunk and it sniffed in his direction. The little fur along its back bristled and rose like porcupine quills. The bed creaked as it stepped off of its rotting meal to fully face Jack with a snarl.

 _‘Run…’_ Jack snapped internally, yet his body did not move. _‘Run. Run. Run…!’_

The Baku lumbered off of the bed with a thud of its feet and a lurching creak of the floor. It opened its mouth in a threatening gape, ears pinned back and eyes glaring. It growled lowly, a bone-rattling sound reminiscent of a starved lion’s weak rumble and an elephant’s dying groan. It huffed once, and from its maw, slipping over a blackened tongue, a hand fell and plopped onto the floor in a gelatinous twist of partly crushed bone and rotting skin and sinew. 

_‘Run…!’_ Jack was gasping now, paralyzed and helpless. The Baku rose up on its hind legs in a great, lumbering hunch. 

Back bristling, it roared at Jack and lurched forward at him.

_‘RUN-!’_

Jack yelped, powerful talons and a beak snapping into the skin of his shoulder and neck. The shock of pain, combined with his tightly wound nerves, and the instinctual urge to flee, bolstered him in an overwhelming rush of adrenaline. 

And he ran. 

He didn’t even register the Baku crashing headlong into the door frame, its body much too wide to fit through it. He didn’t seem to hear his owl screeching at him in urgency, flying beside him as he scrambled into the den and fled to the stairs. He did, however, hear the Baku bellow, and the door frame break. Its great feet beat against the weak floor as it half-flew, half-ran at Jack like a rampaging bull. 

He knew nothing but the fact that he had to run, and he saw nothing but the white form of his owl guiding him to the stairs. 

He nearly tumbled down the stairwell, feet clumsy and eyes locked onto the owl instead of where his feet were going. He choked as he collided with the middle landing of the curved stairs, the wind flying out of him in a rushing gasp. Behind him, the stairs started to break and crumble under the Baku’s mad dash towards its prey. 

Jack pushed off and fled down the last handful of stairs, feet slapping onto the finally landing of the first floor, just as the Baku crashed into the railing he had been pitched over not even a split second ago. 

His eyes were frantic, lungs gasping for air as he tried to search for his owl. _Where is she? Where did she go?!_ He couldn’t find her…! 

A screech, and Jack veered his head up. Her wings flapped frantically as she clawed at the door at the front of the shop. 

The door to the alley didn’t even cross Jack’s mind, nor did the thought of the Moon seeing him register. His feet were moving before he could even properly identify his own companion. The Baku roared and stomped onto the floor where Jack had fled at the very last second. He seemed to fly without the aid of the wind, and yet somehow the shop was miles long. It was so much bigger than it used to be, as if space had warped and stretched across miles and miles of matter. He ran for days, yet never seemed to get any closer to his urgent and frantic companion. 

The Baku snapped and roared at his heels, its pungent, decaying breath like a fire at his back. His vision blurred in and out of focus – whether from tears or fright, Jack did not know. He only knew that he had to run, to get to the door. Or he would die.

He would die. Their whole world would die.

 _Pitch_ would die.

And somehow, that last thought had him running faster, pushing harder, enhancing and sharpening his focus and senses into knifepoints. 

Jack lurched in a great burst of speed, and with a gasped shout, he reached the door and burst through it in a gust of adrenaline-fueled wind. 

His feet touched the cobblestone road, and he would have kept running. 

But ice poured into his veins, and a hand closed around his very heart and soul. It choked him, like a leash being yanked back around a dog’s collar. He choked and stood straight and frozen, trapped like a fish in a frozen pond. He heard his owl screech angrily and flutter around him. He heard the Baku roar as it crashed into the doorframe – too small. It can’t get out, Jack had a small fraction of time borrowed to escape. 

Though they remained staring ahead, wide in terror and confusion, Jack somehow managed to look up with his eyes. 

He wasn’t sure what was more terrifying – the Baku snapping and roaring as it tried to break down the solid brick wall to get to Jack.

Or the Moon blaring overhead.

Jack wanted to scream, but his throat was flooded with water that froze instantly. He tried to gasp for air, but it never came. Despite the blaring light of the silvery Moon, Jack’s vision was entirely taken up by darkness. Water surrounded him, its embrace cruel and unrelenting. The cold of the pond seeped through his skin and sunk into his very bones, freezing and biting. Blood turned into a slushy-like slurry, and organs became nothing but masses of red, icy lumps. 

He was trapped – in the water, in the cold, the darkness, under the Moon’s scrutinizing stare. 

_‘Help me…’_ he thought desperately. _‘Please…I can’t breathe…!’_

He sank further and further down, yet the Moon’s gaze never left him. It was a taunting thing, the gaze of a predator silent and unseen as it circled its helpless prey. It toyed with Jack like a child plays with a dead bug, staring and prodding at him in morbid fascination. 

Gripped in its careless hold like a cat’s tail, Jack felt his entire resolve waver. He could not escape, he was trapped. There was no sound, but there was an urgency. A cold, careless hand probed and shoved at his very heart, searching it for what was no longer there. It seemed to grow frustrated and frantic. Where were its weeds? Where was the boy it once knew? The parasite it had helped to grow like a twisted plant project? Why was Jack _different?_

Fingers crept into his heart, frigid and unforgiving. Silvery and pure, but there was a poison in them. And they dared to reach in and touch a part of him that no one was allowed to touch. It forced itself into Jack without a care, in a nightmarish imitation of a scalpel cutting away into a body without anesthesia. 

A violation – Jack was being _violated_ , and he had never even realized it up until now. He had no choice, he had no say in what was happening, nor did he have any way of stopping those creeping hands from reaching into his very heart and soul to tear up the revived garden he never knew existed until recently. 

Tears fell from his wide, Moon-kissed eyes. Paralyzed like a mouse caught in a snake’s hypnotic gaze, he could not fight. 

Jack felt the entire world vanishing around him. The city was gone, replaced with a dark, cold, watery realm. The Baku and his companion vanished from his sight and hearing. The very air itself fled from Jack. All he was left with was the cold, the darkness, and the merciless Moon. He was going to drown in this cold place, his heart once more stolen and decimated by the cold Moon. 

Defeated, Jack shut his eyes. For a moment, he tried to imagine the sun, a warm, nurturing entity that opposed the Moon. Its rays could pierce even the coldest realms, and usher to life the very earth itself. It could set fields ablaze and conquer whole lands. It was a powerful and merciless orb of light, yet it was not without care and kindness. It was not without love. 

And with a sudden jolt of clarity, he felt it grasp the Moon’s hands, and tear it away. Suddenly the Moon recoiled, its frigid, poisonous hands burnt. The freezing ice and water was suddenly overwhelmed, melting and fleeing from this unnamed entity. It reached inside of him, gently, carefully, and healed the little damage wrought. 

The very warmth of the sun…it chased away the Moon, it bit and clawed at its icy tendrils. It snapped and roared, chasing away that which had left Jack cold, alone, and scared. The darkness did not wane though. Instead, it became deeper, more tangible. It wasn’t the darkness of a grave, but rather the soothing, gentle darkness of sleep, of a warm night buried under blankets. It blazed at his back, a powerful heat, yet it brought no pain. It brought comfort and safety. Eyes now unglued from their frozen binds, they opened.

He only caught a glimpse of a silvery tendril, and an overcast grey hand shooting out from behind him to grasp it in a chokehold. But like the hazy remains of a dream, the visions vanished, and Jack was brought back to himself with a strangled gasp. He blinked, trembling, hands clammy and shaking. He blinked hazily, lungs burning and hearth thumping. 

He jumped when the Baku roared and his owl screeched at him. He turned to see the Baku nearly finished decimating the door, his owl screeching at him urgently. She snapped her beak at Jack, wings beating and feathers ruffled.

Jack wasted no more time. He ran. 

And the Baku broke free with a great crash of bricks, wood, and stomping feet. 

Jack gasped and pushed himself to run faster.

“Wind…!” he rasped. The Wind picked up and swept him up into the air in a violent gust. 

He heard the Baku roar, and knew he was not about to lose it while in the air. The Baku could fly just as he could, stampeding through the air towards his quarry. Jack dove through the streets, weaving between buildings and cars, hoping to lose it, or at the very least slow it down. But the Baku was relentless, oblivious to any damage it took. It plowed through the narrow spaces between buildings, threw cars out of its way, and leveled small structures. 

Jack felt his Wind wavering, his frantic state confusing and weakening his grasp on it. He couldn’t outrun the mad beast, nor could he hide from it. Heart pounding, Jack searched frantically for some means of escape or aid. He looked to his owl, but she could only fly alongside him, unable to do anything. 

_‘What do I do…’_ he thought helplessly, _‘What do I do…?!’_

And then, a voice.

_“Follow me.”_

Jack gasped and nearly stuttered to a stop. The Wind howled as it fumbled and nearly dropped Jack but it slowed down significantly. He looked around with wide, searching eyes. A flash of incandescent white flashed and vanished down an alley.

_“Hurry.”_

Jack didn’t even pause this time, and instead shot towards the alley where the white form had vanished. He only caught a brief glimpse of it as he entered the alley, and it vanished down a brick corridor that dipped down under the ground as the earth sloped down.

The sound of the Baku’s screaming bellow prompted Jack onward. His owl seemed to also try and pick up the pace, seemingly following exactly what Jack hadn’t fully seen. 

The darkness of the damp tunnel was a thick and palpable entity. But it also highlighted where the white thing was going. It wove around twists and turns, only ever giving Jack a brief glimpse of its strong hindquarters. It was smaller than he thought it was, earthbound and quick. 

A sharp turn had him catching a glimpse of long feet and a white, spade-shaped tail. 

_‘Where have I seen-?’_

_“Hurry! Quickly!”_

Jack gasped as the tunnel spat him and his owl out into what appeared to be a town square. Buildings flanked the edge of the square, empty and lifeless, boasting only a few cars. 

What caught his attention though was the large, strange-looking clock tower* that loomed over it all. Two faces sat stacked one over the other, faces ethereal in their metallic shine and sunset colors. Figures flanked the side of each clock-face, their gazes blank and ominous. Above the second clock was a protruding stone awning sheltering two dark windows. And far above the two clocks and awning, a brick tower rose up into a pointed roof. A normal looking clock sat just below its roofing, and a rectangular window below it yawned with blackened glass and framework. 

Jack did not have time to admire the strange structure though, as the urge to run was still at the forefront of his mind. He made as if to flee in another direction, but he was stopped.

_“Hurry, hurry now.”_

Jack turned back to the clock, and looked down at the building’s base. A large crack big enough for a large dog to fit through gaped open on its side. And just within it, waiting and staring at Jack with opaque black eyes, was an incandescent white rabbit. 

Jack blinked dumbly, stunned. A rabbit…no, not a rabbit. Not a _normal_ rabbit. It was too white, too ethereal, and its eyes were too intelligent. It was about as ‘normal’ as his owl, yet there was so much _more_ to it as well. Its eyes narrowed, as if amused, and one of its oversized, lop-ears twitched.

_“Hurry.”_

Jack had no time to ponder further, as Baku burst through the tunnel and rampaged for him and his owl. He didn’t even give it a second thought, and had the Wind blast him and his owl towards the gaping hole. He flew inside, the rabbit racing through the building ahead of him. He heard the Baku break down the weak wall, but the rabbit was not deterred. Skidding down a corridor, it leaped into another room*.

The room was large, a spiraling well of stairs clinging to the walls and rising upwards. A strange, metal structure sat in the room’s center, shooting up into the building’s top in a twisted display of metal bars. 

The rabbit leaped onto the first set of stairs, and with a speed no real rabbit should be capable of, started running up to the top. Jack barely managed to leap into the metal structure’s center and blast upwards, just as the Baku stomped in and made a snap at his heels. It roared in frustration and rage as he shot upwards through the spiraling metalwork and dizzying stairwell. The rabbit never once left his sight, the rodent completely focused on its task. 

They reached the top, and were finally spat out into their final destination.

The room was dark, not small but not large in size. The only source of light came from a large, round disk with roman numerals flanking its inner edge. The inside of the top clock’s face. But the light was not natural – it did not come from outside. It seemed to ripple and waver like water, ethereal and soft. 

All around Jack were gears and cogs, machinery and mechanisms used to keep the clock running. All were silent, lacking in the clicking and ticking of a running clock. The smell of metal and oil laden with dust perfumed the air, cloying and thick. 

Jack swallowed, still frantic, but there was nowhere to go now. He looked around, and soon caught sight of the rabbit at the back of the room, standing under the faintly glowing clock face and a few mechanisms. It stood stalk-still, motionless. One would assume it wasn’t alive.

A crash was heard, following by the unmistakable sound of stairs and walls crumbling and caving in. The tower shook, and seemed to list to one side. The rabbit suddenly blinked, and rose up on its hindquarters. Its opaque eyes shone suddenly, laden with stars and a power Jack had no desire to name.

 _“Don’t be late,”_ it said. 

And with a push of its legs, it leaped up and back, and it _vanished into_ the clock. The light of the clock face rippled like disturbed water, a wave of cool, whirling energy cascading over the room like a wave licking at the shore. 

Jack almost had no time to ponder what he had just seen and felt the energy was familiar, something to be feared, yet it invited him in like a coy lover. The Baku roared behind him, and his owl hovered beside him, waiting for his decision. Jack looked back at the clock face – the portal. 

The tower tipped, and the mad beast that could kill him now lurched towards him.

He jumped, just as the tower seemed to completely fracture, and the Baku’s tusk scratched at his ankle.

He vanished through the portal. 

****

**

~s~S~s~

**

****

The hum of muffled activity just a few walls and floors away was, to some, a comforting sound. Background noise was often a comfort to people who could not stand complete and total silence. Whether it be the low sound of a television with its volume cranked down to a faint whisper, or the more consistent clicking of cups and computer keyboards in a café, background noise would always be something either desired or scorned. 

To Nature, it was difficult to say whether or not the faint voices just a short hallway away were a comfort or a nuisance. Like many, Natured hated absolute silence. Nothing was ever truly silent out in the natural world, despite what humans may say or think. If a tree fell in the woods, and no one was around, yes, it made a very loud crashing sound. Even when predators were nearby, and the birds hushed and the deer froze, there was always a whisper of the wind and the shuffling of dirt from the earthworms. Complete and absolute silence did not exist in nature, no matter where you looked. You would always hear the buzzing drone of water in your ears if you dove onto the depths, and there would always be a faint groan and grumble of the dirt and rock shifting even in the deepest layers of the earth. Not all sounds could be perceived by the human ear, but that did not mean nature was ever truly silent. 

Right now though, Nature herself could not be certain as to what was worse. The drone of the court a small distance away, or the total silence of the man she watched over through the eyes of another.

Eyes glazed, her nymphs lay scattered about the room back at North’s Workshop, each lending her their eyes so that she may watch over the Boogeyman from Libra’s court. She watched as a few fussing water nymphs brushed away nonexistent spots of dirt from the pale, overcast skin, while a few wind nymphs attempted to straighten his dark hair. 

They were as anxious as she was, though Nature somehow managed to keep her anxiety and fidgety emotions under a mask. Her nymphs though would always be innocent, emotional sprites, so honest and free in their expressions and feelings. She envied them at times. 

Her gaze, stationed within the eyes of a fire nymph tending to the hearth, lowered to the single nymph on Pitch’s chest. The leafy wood nymph plucked leaves from its body and set them over his bony sternum. 

It was futile, but Nature did not have the heart to dissuade her nymphs in their desire to comfort the comatose man. It was all anyone could give him right now. And if she were honest with herself, she well and truly hoped it would somehow help.

“Still as stubborn as ever, my dear.”

Nature didn’t even flinch, having long since sensed the other entering the room Libra had let her use to regain her bearings. Nature turned, her gaze returning to her own eyes as they lifted from staring blankly down at her lap. She blinked, her sight resettling back into her obsidian eyes, and focused on the dark, winged woman before her. 

She said nothing at first, and only inclined her head in greeting. Sorrows smiled, but returned the wordless greeting, folding her hands at her front. Her wings rustled as they slightly fell from their tight fold at her back.

“It has been a while,” Sorrows said. Nature only nodded, her gaze seemingly glued to the owl-like woman’s neck. 

Sorrows’ smile fell, and she sighed softly. 

“How are you?” she asked.

Nature’s lips tightened, and her hands clenched into her dress. “How do you think I am?” she asked. Though there was frustration in her voice, she lacked the ire and annoyance most were accustomed to hearing from her. She sounded tired. 

Sorrow nodded, unperturbed. “These are difficult times for us all,” she said. Her brows creased in thinly veiled concern. “How…how is he?”

Mother Nature swallowed thickly, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. Wordless, she held her hand out to Sorrows. A silk-gloved hand took her hand, and both shut their eyes as they fell into the reeling pull of another’s eyes.

An earth nymph, sat upon the bedside table closest to Pitch, allowed them the use of its eyes. Obsidian and cobalt orbs replaced the nymph’s own jade-like eyes, and they gaze down upon the Boogeyman. Nature directed their attention to Pitch’s chest, slowly and shakily rising and falling with each unsteady breath. A simple mental prompting to the wood nymph on his chest gave the leafy sprite pause. Hesitant, but unwilling to disobey the request, the nymph slowly and carefully started to remove the healing foliage from Pitch’s chest.

Each leaf that was removed, revealed a small glimpse of the pale chest, and the blaring evidence of his fate. 

Like the hairline cracks on a sidewalk, the tiny fissures spread over the center of Pitch’s chest like a disease. They were faint, thin and barely noticeable at a glance. But any spirit who looked upon them would instantly know that these were no mere blemishes or wounds. The sharp, jagged lines were reminiscent of cracked glass, or of the abuse-given marks on a porcelain doll. 

Right before their eyes, a branch near Pitch’s left pectoral suddenly deepened and grew, reaching up towards prominent collarbones. Pitch did not flinch, or show any sign of feeling the progress of his body’s own ruin and oblivion. 

But Sorrows and Nature knew better. He gave no outward signs of it, but they both knew that Pitch was in agonizing pain. It was only on the surface now, like the burning sting of a skinned knee. But when the cracks would start to deepen and spread, it would reach into his very bones and blood, and plunge him into a hellish nightmare of pure, inconsolable agony. Agony that he would not be able to express. He would suffer in silence until his final breath. 

Internally, Nature made the decision that she would refer sound over silence then. She would rather have the Boogeyman screaming and writhing in agony, than watch him suffer silently and without a single idea of how she could help him. 

Their hands separated with stifled breaths and clammy palms. Sorrows had at one point gone down onto her knees, her wings unfurled and splayed to her sides in a display of pain and emotional anguish. Nature’s hands trembled, and without looking back through another’s eyes, commanded the wood nymph to replace the leaves. 

Sorrows clenched her fingers into her dress over her thighs, a bit of her dark hair breaking loose from her thick braid and falling in loose waves over her bent head. 

“He hurts…” she said, needless as it was. They both knew he was hurting. 

“He does not have much more time,” Nature said, her jaw clenching. “And of course my colleague does not see fit to lend him more.”

Sorrows looked up at Nature, her cobalt eyes tired. The faint burst of gold around her pupils seemed to dim somewhat. 

“Just as in nature, some things simply cannot be given more than they are allowed,” she said.

Nature suddenly stood sharply, glaring down wrathfully at Sorrows.

“You think he does not deserve more time? That he does not deserve a better chance of surviving this?” She snarled, hands clenching at her sides. “That he does not deserve a chance at all?”

“I did not say that, and you know it,” Sorrows said calmly, still sitting on her knees before the irate nature herald. 

“You implied it!” Nature snapped, her temper flaring and her emotions raging. She refused to acknowledge the burning behind her eyes, and willed the blurriness of her vision to go away. 

“You know I did not,” Sorrows sighed, “You know how much I and my kind care for him. You know how deeply we love him and wish for his happiness and survival.”

Nature snarled. “What would you know? You are not _her_ , you are nothing but her memory. How can something as fleeting as a memory claim to _love_ him?”

Sorrows only gazed up at Nature despairingly. Wordlessly, she pressed to her clawed feet. Nature was unable to withhold a flinch. She and Sorrows were almost the exact same height, yet somehow the other woman appeared so much taller than her, so much stronger. She gazed at Nature with gentle and unassuming eyes. She was neither angry nor annoyed, nor was she cowed or intimidated by Nature’s temper. There was something worse in her eyes; disappointment, and hurt. 

Nature felt her hands shaking, the burning behind her eyes intensifying. She felt her lip tremble, her neck throbbing as her throat constricted. She refused to acknowledge the regret and self-loathing bursting in her chest, thick and tainted, like oil spilling into her blood. 

A flame was suddenly flicked onto the diseased oil as Sorrows lifted a hand and cupped her cheek. 

“I may be a memory, a mere shadow of who she once was,” she said, her thumb gently catching the one traitorous tear that fell from Nature’s eye, “But I am still a part of him, still a part of _her_. I am the embodiment of the love he had for her. And so, I can love him just as freely and as willingly as she once did, Seraphina*.” 

Something in Nature broke – ice glass, her very bones – and like a dam finally giving way, Mother Nature found herself breaking for the second time that week. 

Choking back a sob, Nature fell into the other woman’s arms. Inky black wings cocooned her in their soft embrace, her cheek falling onto the soft curve of the other’s breast. Hands long since gifted with a maternal touch wrapped tightly around her, and a perfume Nature had not smelled in literal ages wafted through her nose. 

Her touch, her warmth, and the smell of what was once a perfect, carefree life that no longer existed…

Nature could not stop her tears or her sobs if she tried. And even more than that, she did not even attempt to try and stifle them. She had no need to hide from this woman, she had no need to try and wear a mask around her. Even if she tried to, Sorrows would know, and she would not allow her to hide behind her frigid and wrathful mask. Even without her power of empathy, she would simply know. 

Just like any mother would know when their child was hurting, when they were lying, and when they were hiding. Sorrows was no different, and despite her title, Nature was still her child. 

Sorrows’ arms tightened around the distraught girl, dark lips pressing to her forehead.

“Elizabeth Pitchiner may be gone,” she said softly, “And I may just be her memory given life by your father. But if you still have desire of me, and if you will have me, I can and will continue to be your mother, sunflower.” 

Nature only tightened her arms around Sorrows, eyes screwed shut, but her tears still flooding. But if she held on tight just a bit tighter, and squeezed her eyes closed just a tiny bit harder, she could pretend that everything was as it used to be. She could pretend that this was not just a shadowy memory of her mother, and that her father never became Pitch Black. She could pretend that everything was alright, that all was as it should have been all those centuries ago. 

She could pretend that Elizabeth Pitchiner never died during the invasion. She could pretend her father, Kozmotis Pitchiner, never fell victim to the Fearlings and Nightmare Men. She could pretend she was a little girl again, free of her malice and cynical ire. 

She tried. Oh how she tried, to pretend it was all true…

But her heart was a hardened stone, now laden with the same cracks and fissures spreading over her father’s body. The stone that made up her heart fractured, and bled the red blood of a mortal soul. 

There was no pretending, and there would never be any pretending. It would not save them – it would not save Pitch. So despite the blood, despite the fracture shards of her heart, Nature resolved to herself silently and with determination.

No matter the peril, she would see Pitch Black survived, and eventually, she would see him thrive. And if one day things ever went back to some semblance of normal, maybe she wouldn’t have to pretend their family was united and happy.

Maybe one day, she could take those wishes and dreams, and make them a reality…

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N~ You all have NO idea how apprehensive I was of using that last scene. As some of you may know, William Joyce’s wife, Elizabeth, passed away back in February. And although I had Sorrows as an OC long before I even found out she was sick, I had planned on forming her into an embodiment of Nature’s mother and Pitch’s (Kozmotis’) deceased wife. I became EXTREMELY apprehensive in using this idea though after Elizabeth passed, because it somehow felt like I was…not insulting, but somehow disrespecting her memory and Joyce’s memory of her. But in the end, after a LONG couple months thinking it over, and discussing it with a close friend, I decided to take the plunge and make it happen.
> 
>  **Lady Elizabeth Pitchniner.**  
>  Elizabeth Pitchiner had been a florist and botanist during the Golden Age. She had caught the eye of General Kozmotis Pitchniner, and he asked her permission to court her. It was a scandalous thing to the higher class to behold – the famed Golden General, courting a common florist. But despite it all, and after a brief courtship, Kozmotis eventually asked for her hand in marriage. Taken by the General, Elizabeth agreed, and married into her title of Lady Pitchiner. Not long after their marriage, their daughter, Seraphina, was born to them. When Kozmotis was taken over by the Fearlings and Nightmare Men, he invaded their home and ravaged their town. Elizabeth died after she helped their daughter escape the siege. 
> 
> Centuries later, the remains of her memory within Kozmotis’ mind would be given life in the form of Lady Sorrows alongside Samhain, and become one of his two eldest and most powerful of his dark spirits. 
> 
> Now, to clarify the relationship between Pitch and Sorrows. Kozmotis and Elizabeth were two completely different people. Pitch and Sorrows are NOT Elizabeth and Kozmotis. Kozmotis and Elizabeth no longer exist, and therefore the former romantic relationship they had no longer exists. Sorrows is a memory of Elizabeth brought to life by Pitch, but she only resembles Elizabeth in appearance and some personality. Kozmotis is not Pitch, and Elizabeth is not Sorrows. There is no romantic relationship between Sorrows and Pitch, but there is affection and the love of a close brother and sister. Despite the lack of a romantic relationship though, Sorrows can and will act on the role Elizabeth had with her daughter – so long as Nature desires it. It’s a bit of a complicated topic, made even more so because each one of them (Kozmotis, Elizabeth, and Seraphina) have all become spirits in three completely different ways. Feel free to ask questions via IM. 
> 
> **Due to the excessive length of the footnotes, please follow the link to the FF chapter to read them!** https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9153154/24/Solitude-and-Darkness
> 
> ~S~


	25. Will Tomorrow Come at Last?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, this was to be one complete chapter, but as I continued to write and write, I found I had to divide it into two chapters! Not that this is something overly annoying, but it changed some plans; mostly for the better! I was actually going to post during the eclipse that too place in August – and on the day before my birthday no less! – but plans had to change due to life. Sigh…
> 
> ** Also, when you complete this chapter, be sure to check out the very important A/N next! There is a very important announcement, and a prize to be won by a select few. **
> 
> But for now, **I would like to publicly thank the participants of my last contest! All contestants from DA.**
> 
> **MantaDrifter (Winner)  
>  KSClaws  
> Catwoman-cali-onyx  
> Jamieaizen  
> Ravenflinch**
> 
> All were participants on my last SaD contest where they were to design a Dark Spirit aesthetic outfit for Jack! Go check these people out, they are absolutely amazing artists and story-tellers!
> 
>  
> 
> Song inspiration for this chapter – Aoki Tsuki Michete, Ending theme of Kuroshitsuji, Book of Circus.
> 
> Edited by The Fallen Angel of Pain
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> ~S~

_How could this have happened?_

How, with all they had done in the past for the world’s children, could they fall so low? How could the world have fallen to such pieces, and they had never once noticed? How could their world, their haven, their very reason for being, be twisted into such a malicious and deformed entity?

How could Manny have not said anything to them about it?

How could they have let this happen?

How could they have been so _ignorant?_

North had no idea how all of this could have spiraled out of control. He could not for the life of him think of how such a mess was made, and they never even noticed. Or perhaps they had not cared to notice. He didn’t know anymore. He only knew that, before coming back to Libra’s Court, he had been hurting, scared and confused. But now, he did not feel much of anything.

A recess had been called recently, to let the other witnessing spirits regain their bearings, and for Libra’s wards to tend to Bunny’s injuries. He could not recall when he and his colleagues had been taken to a mostly bare room with sparse furniture to wait for the injured Pooka, and for whatever else Libra had to say to them. North only knew that he was oddly very numb. But he was also tired; so very, very tired. 

Eyes once shining with wonder, now dull with defeat and exhaustion, surveyed the other Guardians perched on their own seats with a strange sense of distance between them. No one said anything, nor did they tear their gazes away from the floor to which their eyes were glued to. Or in Sandy’s case, the ceiling. North did not know why Sandy was so transfixed upon the ceiling of all places, but he wondered if the fallen star was perhaps remembering. Remembering his days as a Star Pilot, his former life of an explorer upon a shooting star. Perhaps he was wondering about his old star ship. Perhaps he was wondering if he would ever get to fly a star again.

North wondered if Sandy missed it. If perhaps, right now, he was wondering when he had forgotten about his former life in space. North would not blame him if he was. It seemed like they were all missing their former lives; when things were so much simpler, when their lives were their own, when everyone and everything was _right._

But then their lives were taken from them-…no, they were not taken. They were willingly and blindly given. When the Moon summoned them for their aid, they did not hesitate. They did not consider just what they would be giving up, how much they would be sacrificing, just so they could have something _more._

Greed was a sultry and ugly thing. But it always managed to seduce those in their weakest moments. When you weren’t looking, it snatched away what was dear to you and traded it away. And you would never know until it was too late, that it wasn’t greed itself who gave away your soul, but you yourself who chose to do so. 

North looked over at Tooth. The fairy queen had her eyes locked onto the floor, tired and dull, just like his own eyes. She looked so strangely small and alone without her fairies flitting around her. The room was thick with a tar-like silence, heavy and toxic without her chipper, fast-paced voice directing fairies to lost teeth. Her wings, limp and oddly still, looked dull and hazy, their translucency tainted with a sooty film. Their shimmer and vibrant colors were fading, and the sluggish stillness of the glass-like appendages was haunting. 

She had no voice, no buzzing wings, no life, no light. Tooth had no more color and light than a lump of coal. North never realized how bright and cheerful she had been before now. He was having a hard time remembering when Tooth had last been so full of light and energy. 

In fact, he could not much recall a time when any of them had been so happy. Successful and powerful, yes. But for the life of him, North could not remember a time when any of them had ever truly been _happy_. They thrived in their former power and success, their influence and status. They laughed, enjoyed themselves, had parties, worked diligently and without falter…

_‘But were we actually happy?’_ he wondered, _‘We enjoyed what we did, but were we happy with who we were…?’_

His eyes lowered, taking in his large, calloused hands. He never much looked at his hands, despite how much he used them in creating toys or fixing things. Calloused from centuries of swordsmanship and crafting, he never considered how much he had done with them until now.

He was starting to realize a lot of things now actually, things they had all taken for granted…

“How could this have happened…?” North startled from his resolve, looking up at Tooth.

The fairy queen was still looking down at the floor, but there was a watery quality to her eyes, as if she was on the verge of tears, but had no strength to even let them fall. 

No one spoke, despite the clarity of the answer. It was a sad fact that, despite knowing why it all happened, they were not too sure how this happened. It was something they had not once vocally acknowledged, but it was a silent understanding between them all. It was like an unspoken rule, a secret that everyone knew but never voiced. 

Whether it was out of cowardice or weariness, none of them could be certain. Perhaps it was a bit of both. But they all knew that it was just too late to voice things now. It was simply something none of them could bear to face, for it had become so much bigger and uglier than they could have ever imagined. Facing it would mean admitting they had created such a monstrous thing. Facing it meant risking their very sanity being lost at the mere sight of it. 

Tooth shuddered, hugging herself shakily.

“So many…” she whispered shakily, “There were so many names Libra listed…but I don’t even recall any of them…! I don’t remember any faces, voices, or what they did. They’re gone, but I don’t even know who I am mourning. It…it’s terrible…!”

North and Sandy winced, their hearts throbbing in what was supposedly a painful tremor, but all they could feel was a weak quiver. The writhing beast below their hearts was now a familiar thing, grotesque and suffering in its putrid decay. Its claws had long since sunk into and merged with their hearts, stealing away what little emotion they had the energy to express. 

This was the most frightening and painful thing about Oblivion. You know you are missing someone, you know they are gone, and you know they will soon be forgotten. But you can no longer recall a face, a voice, or their purpose. You could have been the closest of friends, but once one succumbs to Oblivion, the past no longer matters. Slowly, like puss draining from a wound, you lose that history, that past, and those feelings you may have had for them. They vanish from every plane of Time – the past, the present, and their void future. 

Their world had lost almost half of its spirits – some known, some unknown, and some they never even knew still existed. And they could no longer recall who they had been. The names inscribed on Libra’s courtroom walls would be all that was left for a short while. But in time, even those would slowly vanish as the owners of those names were slowly stolen from the memories and hearts of all remaining spirits. 

Even Harley was leaving them. North tried to think of the once free and wild Spirit of Forgiveness. But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how far back he thought, Harley’s face was nothing but a blur. He could only faintly see his colorful clothing, but even that was all starting to distort and vanish. He tried to recall his laugh, but it was muffled; like he was hearing it from the other side of a wall. And the wall was getting thicker, the laughter more distant and stifled. Forgiveness was being forgotten and thrown into Oblivion. 

_‘Will we be forgotten too?’_ North wondered. Wearily, he looked over at the distraught fairy queen – or was she still even a queen at all at this point?

“Toothy…” he said, “We…this is not…we do not-”

“NO!” Tooth snapped, jumping to her feet and startling North and Sandy. 

The two males watched her, taken aback by the emotions flitting through her watery eyes. Rage, sadness, confusion, pain, grief; all of it had overwhelmed her. Her hands, balled into fists, trembled at her sides, her entire body shaking and feathers shuddering. She let loose a pained, choked sob, and brought her fists up, unfurling them to look at her hands. A few crescent-shaped marks marred her palms from where her nails had dug into them, but no other blemish tainted her small hands. In her eyes though, she did not see clean, untarnished hands. She saw blood – the blood of hundreds, thousands, _millions_ of humans and spirits. 

The hands of a loving fairy who had once cradled the memories of children in her very palms…and they had been soaked in blood long before she even knew it. They were filthy and defiled the moment she helped lock Pitch away, if not long before that. She had touched these hands to the precious memories and teeth of children. 

But North and Sandy had done the same. They had taken their blood-soaked hands and touched the dreams and wonders of children all over the world. North’s hands stained the toys he once gave to children, and Sandy’s own small hands infiltrated and marred the innocent dreams of oblivious and sleeping children…

Sandy somehow caught Tooth and North’s attention, wearily pantomiming his two cents.

_We can’t change the past,_ he said in defeat, _But…maybe we can fix things before our future breaks…before anyone else is lost…_

Tooth’s jaw tightened. “I don’t even think that’s possible anymore…”

North and Sandy gave her confused looks, and the fairy queen lost all strength. Her tremors ceased, and her hands fell to her sides limply. She stared at the floor, eyes watering.

“Every time we faced Pitch…” she started shakily, “Things only became worse. One day we’re only fighting him because of something small or silly, and the next, we’re trying to kill each other. We never once stopped to think about the fallout, about what would happen if one side actually won…”

She screwed her eyes shut, refusing to look particularly at Sandy.

“Pitch…he had _every right_ to start a war – a _real_ war – when you shot Samhain,” she said. 

Sandy winced, shuddering once, but his brows creased in a strange sort of quiet resentment. Tooth looked up at him, her own brows creasing defensively.

“Don’t even start, Sandy, you know it’s true,” she said.

“But he did not start a war…” North said before his friends could get into an argument. 

Tooth shook her head, eyes falling back to the floor. “No. No, he didn’t. He did _nothing_. He was furious, they were _all_ furious, but he didn’t do anything. And when we realized nothing was going to happen, we forgot about it and ignored the incident. It was just a mistake to us, nothing more. It was just a _bad dream…_ ”

She fell back into her chair, her tremors starting up again. Her tears could no longer be withheld, and they fell down her cheeks freely. She grasped her arms in each hand painfully.

“We _forgot_ that Samhain was someone’s child. We _forgot_ and _ignored_ that Pitch has his own children to look after…! We put it out of our minds and forgot about it like a god-damned lost tooth and replaced it with our greed!” she sobbed. 

North and Sandy were stunned, struck by the painful pill Tooth had suddenly put before them to swallow. It was agonizing to their already wounded and exhausted hearts and minds. Yet despite the agony, they could not even muster the energy to feel even more terribly than they already did. It was too late now. They had lost their chance to fight, not against the rest of the world, but _for_ it and _with_ it. They were no longer allowed to even feel the anguish and pain the rest of their kind was now feeling. They did not have the strength, the courage, to shoulder a single scrap of the pain. They could not be trusted with it. 

They were now merely spectators, the witnesses of a war. They were helpless and powerless, their tools and gifts completely and utterly useless to the planet itself. 

“They were so quiet…” Tooth suddenly whispered, “We never heard from them. We all assumed they were gone. We never thought about what happened to them. But now…”

North looked over at Tooth. “What, Toothy?”

The fairy shook her head, bowing it low. “It’s so obvious now. They weren’t gone. They weren’t dead or destroyed. Pitch’s people, they were _hiding._ ”

Even sitting down, North felt his equilibrium falter. It was so obvious, just as Tooth had said. The dark spirits had not died – and even if they had thought they died off, the Guardians had never mourned them; they had not mourned the loss of an entire species. But no, they had been hiding – hiding from the Guardians, who to them were not the kind or wondrous spirits others said they were. No, in their world, the dark spirits were the children, and the Guardians were the monsters they wanted to hide from. 

They hadn’t been hiding to plan or scheme, to plan malicious or evil intentions. Revenge was not on their agenda. All they could afford was the survival of their race, and of their beloved king. 

Fight or flight, fight or flight, _fight or-_

_Run. Hide._

_Promise me…_

The three Guardians startled as a brisk knock was heard at the door of their room, and one of the guards – who were spread throughout the room, but so still and silent that North had forgotten that they were even there – opened it to admit two other guards, and their fourth Guardian. 

North rose from his seat, along with Sandy and Tooth. They said nothing, and simply watched as the guard escorting Bunny guided him to the nearest chair. 

The Pooka’s empty eye socket was now bandaged and cleaned of residual blood and saline. His face and fur above the shoulders had also been cleaned of blood and saliva. His ears, while still riddled with holes, had been treated with a thick salve, and were less inflamed than they were prior to treatment. He said nothing and did not even look at his fellow Guardians, nor did he snap or scowl at the guard leading him to a chair with a hand around one of his arms. 

They watched Bunny sit down in his chair, shoulders limp and back hunched. He mumbled something to the guard, too low for any of them to hear. But the guard nodded, and to their shock, the second guard handed the Pooka a box they had not noticed he had been carrying. The first guard shuffled over to one of the others in the room and whispered something to him softly, before he departed the room. The second guard who had been carrying the box gave Bunny one last look before he went over to the other Guardians.

“Your companion has been treated and will make a full recovery on his own,” he said curtly.

“But…he is not…” _The same_ , North thought. The guard made no elaborations to knowing what North was thinking, but spoke again anyways.

“The rest of the trial will be resumed in fifteen minutes. Be ready, Guardians.” The guard gave no other words, and instead turned and marched briskly from the room. The door shut behind him with a resounding click of the lock. 

Silence once more fell over the room, eerie and thick, like tar sticking to their bodies and minds. North, Tooth and Sandy stared over at Bunny, who had so far given no indication as to knowing they were there. Unease writhed in their guts as they took in the broken Pooka, fear and uncertainty tethering them to the spot. 

They startled when Bunny suddenly moved. One of his ears sluggishly twitched, and he mumbled incoherently. A paw moved to open the box the guard had given him, and he placed the lid quietly on the floor and propped up against his chair. The other Guardians could not see what was inside, but they could hear a few things being shuffled around inside it – pottery? 

The contents were soon revealed, as Bunny brought out what appeared to be a small round pot of paint, a brush, and…

_‘A…a rock?’_ they thought. 

Bunny turned the round river rock around in his paw, inspecting it like he would one of his eggs. He mumbled again, deeming the rock just right, settled on his haunches in the chair, and placed the pot on the arm of the chair. The box now balanced on his knees, he hunched over and dipped the brush into the paint – black. The color stunned the other Guardians. Bunny _never_ painted with black. It was almost a rule, a law of his, that he would never paint with black, especially not on his eggs. But then again, he had never painted on a rock, unless he was testing colors and new patterns. 

He paid them no mind, and with his nose nearly pressed to the stone, began painting it.

North apparently could not take the sight or the silence anymore, and with a sudden burst of boldness (or foolishness), he cautiously approached the Pooka. His boots sounded oddly loud and booming within the silence. Sandy and Tooth stuck close behind North, but even as they stopped, they all gave Bunny a wide berth. 

“Bunny…” North started, his voice uneasy, “Are you alright…?”

Bunny said nothing, but he did mumble again, his lips barely moving, and his sole focus entirely on his rock. North felt his hands clench at his sides, his fellow Guardians’ unease mounting. North stepped a bit closer.

“Bunnymund,” he said a bit more firmly, “Do you know where you are? Do you know who we are?”

Again, no answer was forthcoming, and North felt both anxiety and fear rise up within him. Hopelessness flooded his body like cold water, freezing his blood and setting his organs to trembling. He forced himself to move closer, and after a moment’s hesitation, he kneeled next to the Pooka. He was close enough now that he could smell the herbal scent of the salve on Bunny’s ears, as well as the more sterile smell of hydrogen peroxide on the fur of his neck and upper chest. 

North swallowed, his jaw tightening. Hesitantly, he reached up and touched the Pooka’s arm. Bunny stopped painting, but made no move to speak or do anything else. It was like someone had hit the pause button, and he simply held still and stared at his rock, his paintbrush motionless. 

North felt his heartrate speed through his ears, and he jumped slightly when Bunny did move his paintbrush – but only to dip it back in the little pot of paint, then slowly and sluggishly bring it back. He resumed painting, and North felt yet another needless crack be added onto his heart. 

“Bunny… _Aster_ …” he rasped, “Please…talk to us. What are you feeling? Please tell us that you are still there, that you are alright…” 

_Of course, he isn’t alright,_ North thought. But he did not know what else to say, what else he could ask of the Pooka. What do you do when your friend is so broken beyond repair? What do you do when the pieces are no longer there, but have since turned to ashes that were soon swept away by Time himself? What do you do to fix someone who was past the point of being broken?

What do you do when one of your best friends has died, but has not left…?

North seemed to get a reaction, and the Russian reeled back when Bunny suddenly turned to look at them. Tooth made a startled noise behind North, her feathers bristling slightly. Bunny only stared at them tiredly, his remaining green eye something completely foreign to them. The iris was so dull and dark, it bordered on black. It had an unnatural depth to it now, its light and vibrant color gone. His pupil was hazy, not unlike the late stages of cataracts. 

Yet they were somehow _clear_ , lacking in the maddening haze they had witnessed within Libra’s court not too long ago. The fire of his madness had been extinguished by Time himself, and all that was left were the sooty remains in which the temporal Angel had planted a new kind of madness; a deeper, clearer, _abyssal_ sort of wisdom that destroyed minds in exchange for its council. 

It made bile rise in North’s throat, and he felt his hands grasp the armrest of Bunny’s chair in a strangling grip.

Bunny cocked his head, ears limp and flopping to one side. His nose twitched once, and he blinked his one eye so slowly, so lethargically, it was like watching a car crash in slow motion. 

He suddenly spoke.

“Angels tell no lies…” he whispered.

The others blinked, but felt the hairs and feathers on the backs of their necks stand on end. A collective shudder ran through their spines, ending in a cold pit just under their stomachs. North swallowed.

“We…do not understand,” he said. “Are you alright, Bunnymund? Do you know who we are?” 

Bunny made a strange sound in his throat, something that was a cross between a groan and a contemplative hum. One ear twitched, and his head cocked to the other side, as if he were listening to something. 

“…follow him…” he said, confusing the Guardians, “Follow him…don’t be late…”

The sound of a muffled sob tore North’s attention away from Bunny and over to Tooth. The fairy queen had her eyes screwed shut and her hands pressed to her ears, teeth grinding as she tried to force herself to disappear, for her existence to stop so she could find some semblance of sanity and peace. 

“Don’t be late…” Bunny repeated, swaying back into his chair, the box of rocks sliding down to lean against his stomach. He blinked slowly once, and turned away from the Guardians to resume his painting.

“Don’t be late…” he mumbled, an ear twitching and whiskers flickering. 

North, impossibly, felt something crack inside of him, and he pressed to his feet so fast that he jostled Bunny’s chair. The little pot of paint wavered and fell to the floor, shattering upon impact with a deafening sound that could wake the dead in a fright. The Guardians choked at the sound, but Bunny merely twitched an ear sluggishly. He looked at the spilled paint and the shattered pot. The black paint, spread over the floor and spattered on the chair, was already drying in a thin layer over the floor. Bunny blinked slowly, looking at his brush almost thoughtfully.

North’s hands shook. “I…I am sorry, Bunny, I-I will-!”

He flinched when Bunny suddenly dropped the brush onto the floor. He seemed to stare out into an unknown distance, his single hazy eye growing darker. He swayed slightly, like he was just slightly jostled by a lethargic vertigo. His rock half-painted, he turned it over onto its blank side and regarded it. 

The Guardians watched the slow actions in morbid fascination and horror. Tooth peered at the guard by the door, about to consider going over to ask for more paint for Bunny, but she paused when she heard North hiss and felt Sandy flinch beside her. She turned back to Bunny, and felt the blood drain from her face. 

As a rule, Bunny often kept his claws trimmed and rounded at the tips. His eggs were fragile, magic notwithstanding, and he did not want to risk scratches or cracks, especially in his paint. He kept them blunt, but still long enough so his furry pads would not become an issue and leave marks on painted eggs. They grew quickly though, and were often a chore to wear down. None of them had had much of a chance to attend to personal grooming in over a week now, and it showed. 

Yet for Bunny, it seemed to aid him in his new endeavor. Now lacking paint, his brush was useless. But his claws were strong, and his hands were careful. A simple river rock would not be too difficult to mark, and he found no issue with the ‘red paint’ dripping from his fingers as he clawed the rest of his design into the rock. 

_STOP!_ The Guardians wanted to shout, to rave and yank Bunny’s hands away from the rock he held and scratched at. But they could not speak, nor could they move. At first, it felt like horror had rooted them to the spot. But upon examination – and the fact that they could examine at all – they realized just what was tethering them back.

It was nothing. A sort of nothingness born of something once so precious and lacking in these times. It was a dead and mad version of what Bunny once represented as a Guardian.

It was with an apathetic sort of horror that they realized why they did not move to act and stop Bunny.

It was _hopelessness_. There was _no point_ in trying to stop them. They did not even try, because it would yield no results. Something inside them had given up.

And it was this ghostly chain of defeat that kept them from moving, from _wanting_ to move at all. They could only watch as Bunny clawed and carved into his rock, unflinching and uncaring of the painful abuse to his claws. The red paint his claws excreted seemed to fascinate him almost, and the more they watched, the less energy and desire they had to stop him.

The door to the room opened without their noticing, and a female guard stepped in. The click of her armored shoes did not rouse the Guardians from their hopeless stupor, and they only lifted their heads to her when she stopped in front of them. 

“The trial is about to start. Come with me,” she said. She briskly turned on her heels and began marching for the door. Stopping between her fellow guards to wait for the Guardians. 

The Guardians, contrasting their earlier reactions, slowly looked up when Bunny suddenly rose, still scratching into his rock. He shuffled after the guard without looking up, his steps unsteady and meandering. The other Guardians blinked slowly, struck dumb and numb by the suddenly too fast world moving around them.

They looked up at Bunny as he came to a shaky stop and sat on the floor on his haunches before the guard blocking his way. He scratched at his rock still, muttering nonsense and incoherent words under his breath.

His ear twitched. He paused in his scratching. He looked up skywards, and cocked his head.

“Don’t be late…”

 

****

**  
**

~s~s~S~s~s~

**  
  
**

 

The air around him was something of an enigma. For with each breath drawn, it did not actually seem to stick to his lungs. It did not fill his chest with the refreshing, rib-tightening atmosphere he was used to. It did not suffocate though, nor did it stifle his airway. It was a strange, frozen sort of atmosphere. The air itself seemed to sit at a standstill, or perhaps it moved with the lazy drift of a dust mote. 

It was eerie to Jack. To suddenly be heaving air in and out of his lungs in a panic, and to suddenly be greeted with such stillness. He nearly choked on his own tongue when he first tasted the crystalline air around him. 

Ice crystals formed in his throat, tiny and immaculate, not unlike pollen in a spring wind. But the cold of the ice – of the air itself – was an otherworldly one. It was deeper, harsher, so much _quieter_ than his own ice. It crept over and around him like an inquisitive, yet deadly snake. Its tendrils slithered down his throat as if in curiosity, trying to find his innermost workings.

The sensation made Jack cough sharply, dislodging the forming crystals of otherworldly frost. He groaned, flipping over onto his side, a hand coming up to scrub at his tightly closed eyes. 

_‘Where am I…?’_ he thought, _‘And the rabbit…’_

Rabbit…rabbit…he had been chasing a rabbit! He had followed it, just as it had urged him, and he had flown to…a clock tower? Yes, a clock tower. But why had he been following it to begin with?

_‘The Baku…’_ he realized with a jolt of his limbs. 

It had gone mad. Consumed by the very nightmares it once ate, the Baku had pursued Jack in its insanity. He did not want to think of what it would have done had it caught him. He only knew that he would not be alive right now if it had caught him, if he had not followed that rabbit.

He suddenly felt a presence. Something soft and warm, something beloved and chaste. It fell like the softest swan’s down over his prone form, so gentle in its pious touch. Its hand tenderly cupped his cheek, and a voice that broke and healed his heart all at once whispered to him. 

“Don’t be late,” it crooned.

Jack felt tears come to his closed eyes, unable to refuse the angelic voice. With a will fueled by the desire to see and serve this entity, he forced his eyes open.

But the presence was gone, and Jack felt his heart quiver mournfully for the briefest moment. And not even a second later, the feelings of adoration and want vanished into nothingness.

He stared dazedly, confused and lost. His very resolve had evaporated into thin air, as if the emotions evoked by that unknown voice had never existed. As if _he_ had never existed.

Jack reined in his resolve. The former trickle of his awareness broke through the barrier holding it back, and he suddenly found himself aware of his surroundings. 

He shot up with a gasp, no sooner choking as the frigid atmosphere clawed at his dry throat. He coughed harshly into his arm, gasping and wheezing to dislodge the crystalline dust from his lungs. He gagged, eyes watering as his organs constricted. His back lurched as he heaved onto his hands and knees, blood rushing into his head in throbbing waves. Bile spurted from his mouth, back arching as his body screamed and compressed in on itself in distress. 

Nothing was coming up though, and once it became aware of reality, Jack’s body abruptly began to unwind. His throat relented its own chokehold, his stomach and lungs settling back into their proper places. He gasped and coughed, trembling and aching. Part of him was certain that his heart had dislodged from his ribcage and was now taking up residence in his brain. His head felt like it was audibly throbbing with his frantic pulse, his blood rushing through his ears in a stormy cascade. He felt his eyeballs rolling in their sockets, disorienting his vision as it was flooded with dizzying whirls of color and light.

Jack groaned as his body slowly settled. The matter making up his body finally stopped trying to rip apart, and he slowly came back into full existence and awareness. He blinked dazedly as his vision cleared, heavy head hanging and providing him with a view of a silvery, mirror-like floor. Exhaustedly, Jack found himself comparing the floor to blue-tinged mercury. His disheveled and pale reflection stared back at him, and the frost sprite had a moment to wonder if it was even his reflection at all. The nauseous, almost drugged-looking boy in the floor did not seem to hold a candle to Jack’s appearance.

“Where am I…?” Hearing his own voice seemed to cement Jack’s existence back together. He blinked dumbly down at the floor, hands chalk-white and planted on the floor like bleached starfish. 

He swallowed thickly around the ball of chalky sand in his throat, his eyes burning from the sensation. He suddenly stiffened in alarm.

He looked down at himself and the immediate area. His bag. His staff. The owl.

All three were gone. 

_‘Oh no…’_ he thought frantically, twisting on his knees to see if any of his things and his guide were nearby, _‘Oh gods, no…!’_

His staff, Pitch’s staff; they were both gone. The items he had collected from the other dark spirits, his guide; there was absolutely no sign of them. And yet he swore his owl had flown through the portal with him. His staff had been in his hand, and his bag strapped securely over his shoulder. 

The portal…

Jack forced himself to still, eyes slowly taking in his surroundings. The portal – it had dumped him here. But where, exactly, was _here?_

He felt his gut clench, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Muscles shaky and bones feeling like brittle spring ice, Jack forced himself to his feet. Vertigo briefly overtook him and filled his vision with fuzzy black dots. But he forced the dizziness away, and his eyes took in the strange, ethereal chamber he found himself in. 

It appeared to be a round room – or perhaps ‘round’ was not the right word. There were twelve slats making up the chamber’s surrounding walls, forming a dodecagon*. Strange, gold metal moldings ran up and down the length of the walls, forming spear-like points. The floor was not as solidly colored as Jack formerly thought. Looking down, he noted how the mercury-like stone more resembled a blue and silver granite, and etched within its odd, mirror-like surface was a gold mosaic patterns that he could not put name or sense to. Constellations, circles, lines and vaguely familiar symbols and glyphs covered the entire floor, dizzying in its designs and shapes. 

It was such an overwhelming sight, seeing so much going on inside the otherworldly image. It made Jack dizzy just looking at it.

_Click!_

Jack gasped, spinning around with wild, frantic eyes at the sudden sound breaking the spell. His eyes settled on the slat of light breaking through one of the walls, he felt himself calm. 

The wall, while completely identical to the others, was actually a door. A beam of subdued white light peered into the room, grounding and familiar. And just slightly beyond the light, Jack could faintly see a shadow moving. 

He gave no thought whatsoever to his actions or who was there. He simply staggered to the door just as the shadow seemed to turn and walk away. Jack pushed through the door, heart pounding and disorienting confusion stifling him. He just barely caught the shadow’s tail end as it turned a corner down a hall. Jack did not waste time, and while his legs were shaky and his brain was a muddled mess, he rushed to follow it.

He barely paid any mind to the ethereal halls and corridors, the strange floor that seemed to waver and swirl like storm clouds through a glass-like surface. The walls, perfect imitations of every single vertical surface, were maze-like and strange in their patterns and forms. Every surface was mirrorlike, but hazy in places. Like a house of mirrors, every surface held Jack’s profile at every angle. 

He gasped as he staggered into a wall from taking a sharp turn, just in time to catch the ends of fabric from his quarry making another turn around a corner. Split like a swallow’s tail, dark and as blindingly black as the void*.

_‘A tailcoat…?’_ he wondered. 

The frost sprite pressed on, all the while trying to forcibly decide if he should call out to the person or not. A part of him wondered why he was even chasing this person. He had nothing better to go on though. His guide was his only asset in finding his way to where he needed to go, but she was still missing. 

_“Don’t be late,”_ that voice from his half-conscious state whispered to him. It sent a shudder down his spine, but it was also eerily familiar. 

Jaw tightening, Jack turned the final corner and intended to make a full sprint. But he suddenly stopped. 

The set of round-topped double doors seemed to scrutinize him, their height daunting. Stark white, they were decorated with yet more of that strange, starlight gold molded into spatial and temporal patterns. Gears and cogs were strategically placed upon the door, and in such a way that Jack wondered if they were just decoration, or somehow functional. 

A sound not unlike the chirp of a bird caught his attention, and Jack spun around as renewed hope swelled in his chest. But instead of seeing his anticipated owl, he was startled to see something else entirely. 

It was a mouse. Or…he was sure it was a mouse.

Its body was definitely that of a small rodent, its fur white as snow. Its distended, pointy nose twitched at Jack curiously, while its beady, jet black eyes stared up at him. Its long, grey-pink tail lay in a semi-curled position behind it, one of its front paws lifted as it sniffed in Jack’s direction. But that is where all comparisons of a mouse stopped, and entered a steampunk enthusiast’s dream. 

It had no hindlegs whatsoever. Instead, round gears made of bronze were attached to its haunches, acting as makeshift wheels for it to easily get around with just its front paws. Upon its back was a windup-key of aged bronze matching to its wheels, leading into a metal-edged hole in its back. And just on its chest, tiny and usually found on the wrists of humans, was a fully functioning watch-face*. 

Jack could only gape at the strange creature. Or perhaps it was not nearly as strange as he was making it out to be. It certainly did not look as outlandish as North’s elves, and certainly not as fantastically surreal as Bunny’s walking eggs. But it was still a very, _very_ strange sight. 

But it certainly confirmed one thing; he was not in a place belonging to mortals. This was likely the ward or servant of a spirit. 

He eyed the mouse’s watch, his throat tightening. He could certainly guess who it belonged to, but he did not dare acknowledge it. Not just yet. 

Instead, he cautiously knelt on the floor, but did not get any closer to the rodent. Mouse or not, he was not stupid enough to risk being harmed by something that may well look so innocuous as a trick. 

“Hello…?” he offered a bit uncertainly.

The mouse cocked its head, silver whiskers twitching and ears perking. At least it had some minor intelligence, Jack thought.

“Can…can you help me?” he asked, “I’m not sure where I am. Um, I was following someone…I think? A-anyways, I don’t know what to do now.”

Jack nearly wanted to slam his head into the floor. He was making no sense, and he was sure this mouse shared a connection to its master. And gods help him if the spirit in question did not appreciate intruders and did not want to hear his crazy explanation. 

But then again, if the owner of this place was who he thought it was, perhaps they were expecting him?

The mouse squeaked suddenly, and rolled on over to Jack. The frost sprite stood upright, cautiously backing away from the mouse as it rode towards the door. He watched, fascinated, as it turned so one of its gear-wheels was facing the edge of a cog in the door. The teeth of its wheel slid into the cog, and with a simple, slow turn of the wheel, the cogs began to move.

Starting from the bottom of the doors, Jack watched in flabbergasted astonishment as they all began to slowly turn and move. Complicated mechanisms both hidden and seen worked with the motion of the mouse to align, separate, flip and connect gears to new partners. Clicks were accompanied by the metallic rasp of moving metal parts hiding in the door. Deep, beast-like groaning was heard as the larger mechanisms began to respond to their smaller parts, unlocking the majestic doors with primitive ease. 

A sharp click was heard, startling Jack, and the doors suddenly began to swing open. 

He blinked dazedly, nearly tipping over in a fit of vertigo and awe. He barely caught himself on the frame of the door, staring into the large room.

It appeared to be a dome-like room. The entire half-sphere was composed of entirely white slats divided by into triangle-like ‘slices’, their points meeting at the top of the dome. The floor was glassy, and perhaps was made of glass. For below its surface was what appeared to be a dark blue stone not unlike what Jack first discovered in the first room. Towards the middle of the room was a large circle that was close to covering the entire room’s floor. Framed with gold and silver, it also seemed to sit below the surface of the glass floor. Roman numerals, constellation marks and other signs Jack could not place whirled around the circular display. 

Jack quickly locked onto the giant silver arrows protruding from the center of the smallest circle – clock hands. And sprouting from the very center of the ‘nose’ of the clock was a strange, elaborate device…

It appeared to be a small, round table made of dark silvery metal. A single, thin bar of black metal acted as its single leg protruding from the floor, flanked by a matching set of metal coils that spun around it in a disorienting whirling weave. Its top was mostly gold and silver, boasting an overwhelming array of consecutive circles and other shapes. Round tracks displayed orbs of various sizes on spokes, giving the impression that pressing a button would make them rotate around the board. A crystalline orb sat in an indent in the very center, flanked by gear-like rings of the table’s top. The orbs surrounding it, nine* in all, were soon recognized by Jack as the planets of Earth’s solar system. 

_‘The orb in the center must be the sun…’_ he thought. He hadn’t even realized that he had at some point entered the room and approached the device. He looked up at the second device hovering over the table and hanging from the ceiling by a single, rope-thin, black metal bar piercing a vortex-like coil that matched the table’s single leg. 

An armillary sphere*. Jack could recall seeing a few in museums, art events and astrological locales. But he had never seen one so complicated and looming. Mostly silver, many mechanisms and distinguished parts were a worn bronze or gold. Crystalline stones adorned key points and measured locations, with a single, blue crystal ball cradled in its center. 

The frost sprite swallowed, suddenly intimidated by the looming contraptions. Their stillness and seemingly nonfunctional and purely aesthetic mien made him suspicious and anxious. He knew these were more than just decoration, but what made them so special, he could not say. Slowly, he circled the table and sphere, looking at it from every angle he could manage. He stopped when he made a few laps around the strange devices, and he stared down at the little ball protruding from the table that was artfully oxidized to look green – Earth. 

He lifted a hand, fingers twitching as he contemplated touching it…

The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end, his spine prickling as spiders crawled down his back. He was no longer alone, someone was in the room with him. Someone was-

“Don’t touch,” a voice purred behind Jack.

“AH!” Jack yelped, spinning around and tripping over his own feet. He winced and hissed as his ankle jerked from being caught by its twin, his pelvis and shoulder screaming in protest as they hit the ground and the table, respectively.

Panting, he stared with wide, stunned eyes at the entity who owned this strange realm. Jack had only met him a small handful of times, and never truly face to face. Yet here he was, Time himself looming over Jack. And yet he was _different._

He no longer wore his long tunic and cloak, nor did he appear to be wearing his cog-heeled boots. Instead, he wore something more relaxed fitting, but strange: a white tunic comprised of strips of soft, gauzy silky seemed to lace and weave artfully around his torso. The tunic was strange in that it did not seem to have a back, and was tied to Time’s torso by two knots that made up the ends of the gauzy strips; one at the back of his neck, and one at his lower back. Trailing him, the sash-like remains of the tied knots formed the train-like excess of an Obi. The tunic itself was sleeveless, but his arms were still covered. Cinched with silver chords around his biceps, Time’s arms were bound piously with loose, sheer-like white sleeves that ended just past his fingertips. Skintight silver leggings adorned his legs, while plain, knee-high white boots with more sensible heels covered his calves and feet. 

The strange, almost obscenely revealing top confused Jack at first. But it became all too clear to the frost sprite on why Time wore such a thing, and it made him _terrified._

Wings adorned Time’s back. Not like the wings of a bird, or even the wings of Angels depicted in human religion. Oh no, these were so much _more_ , so unearthly and looming. Their number did nothing for their otherworldliness.

It took Jack a moment of gaping, but he managed to count not one, not two, but _six pairs_ of wings on Time’s back. He had _twelve wings_ , all of them an unnatural white, and glistening with spatial gossamer and energy. They seemed to dwarf Time, yet from his throne-like seat, he somehow brought the wings together and dominated them. Like a king surrounded by his most loyal knights, he held them at his back with the might and crippling grace of a God. 

_‘Oh my god…’_ Jack thought, terrified and overwhelmed, trembling on the floor like a cornered animal. _‘Oh my god…!’_

Time suddenly chuckled, reclining in his seat and propping his cheek on a fist.

“I’m sorry, but I am not your God,” he purred teasingly, “That title belongs to another.”

Jack swallowed, never once taking his eyes off of Time as he shakily climbed back to his feet. He was trembling profusely, his knees weak and breath short. 

“H-…how?” he rasped. Time chuckled again.

“You tell me,” he said with a shrug, “You’re the one who insisted on using one of the portals to my realm – one of the few still existing that is. It’s a shame, I quite liked that clocktower…”

Jack blinked, suddenly very uncomfortable. The Prague clocktower…it had been a portal to Father Time’s domain? He almost did not want to believe it, but he knew there was no use denying it. There was plenty of proof around him to begin with, and it’s not like he could deny suspecting…

“I don’t…why am I here?” he asked, “And…where are we? And Sorrows’ owl, where is she?”

Time hummed thoughtfully, his free hand playing with something. Jack’s eyes widened, taking in the item having previously been hidden by Time’s massive wings. His staff – not the one Pitch gave him, but the one the Moon had given Jack. The crook he had used to save his sister, and as a result, died and taken with him as a spirit. 

“Give it back,” Jack blurted without even realizing. He blinked and blanched, his hands shaking as his eyes flickered from Time to his staff.

Time smiled. “Relax, I can’t do anything to it, nothing useful anyways.” He suddenly stood, his lowest wings rasping against the floor and curling partly around his feet demurely. 

“Your owl is fine,” he said nonchalantly, “She feels nothing and sees nothing, which works out well for what I wish to discuss with you.”

Jack felt bile rise into his throat. She felt nothing and sees nothing; this could literally mean anything. Best case scenario, Time was somehow keeping her in suspension, or perhaps asleep. Worst case scenario, she was no longer alive…

“Please…” he rasped, his hands itching for his staff, like he was experiencing withdrawal and being tempted by a bottle of alcohol. “Why am I here?” 

Time said nothing. Instead he steadily approached Jack. The frost sprite took several steps back until his back hit the edge of the table-like device, his heart pounding. He was almost fascinated though, as Time’s six lowest wings smoothly glided with quiet rasps over the floor, and his largest and highest wings were held in a loose fold at his back. Part of him wondered just how the hell Time could stand, let alone walk with such grace with such ungainly wings. They could not be weightless, let alone convenient to walk with. He’s seen plenty of normal birds struggle with their wings, especially when on the ground. Time, however, made carrying twelve wings look effortless, if not impossibly graceful. 

The temporal entity seemed to loom over Jack, regardless of the fact that he was barely any taller than the winter spirit. He held his breath as Time craned his neck and cocked his head, as if studying him. This close, Jack could pick up the faint, otherworldly scent perfuming the Angel like an alluring musk. His chest was becoming unbearably tight from the scent, not unlike the strangling choke of inhaling cigarette smoke. 

Time suddenly smiled, a low, sultry chuckle that vibrated down to Jack’s very core rumbling through his throat. 

“You are a fascinating entity, Jack Frost,” he purred, straightening to look down at Jack. His fingers tapped along the gnarled wood of Jack’s crook. “Few people ever catch my attention, but I suppose circumstances have placed you in the spotlight.”

Jack’s lips thinned. “I don’t understand…”

Time chuckled. “Of course not, I do not expect you to have a single inkling of what has transpired.”

Jack withheld a flinch. Part of him took Time’s words as a jab to his ignorance, but another part of him was unsure. Something in Time’s tone did not add up; like there was something he was not saying, something that could completely change the context of his words.

He swallowed thickly, his hands tightening on the edge of the device’s table.

“What is this thing?” Jack asked.

Time cocked a brow, his smile widening. He looked up at the device looming above Jack.

“It is an astrological, spatial and temporal armillary*,” he said with a shrug, “Quite a mouthful, but you do not possess the lingual comprehension to pronounce or comprehend its actual name. So few entities do, sadly…”

He sighed, suddenly side-stepping Jack to circle the device. The frost sprite, relieved to be out from under Time’s looming shadow, tracked the Angel with his eyes. He kept flickering his gaze from Time himself to his wings, catching a glimpse of his exposed back. Or what he could see of it. His wings were thick and clustered together at their bases, leaving very little skin to see between the feathers and powerful flight muscles. Even his long hair covered the space between his topmost wings. He watched Time’s hands rapping over his crook, as if testing its durability, studying its every crease and twist. Jack’s nerves prickled at the intimate touch…

“Do you know why there are twelve numbers on a clock, frostling?” Time suddenly asked, startling Jack from his resolve. He blinked, bewildered by the random question. 

“I…don’t know,” he said uncertainly, “Because it just works? Because it divides days up into twenty-four hours?”

Time laughed. Jack felt his cheeks flush, though why he felt embarrassed, he could not say. He didn’t know why it was a prudent question, let alone why his answer was so funny. It was one of those questions you never think to ask and that doesn’t have any real answer, or so he thought. He wasn’t so sure anymore. He was talking to _Father Time_ after all.

Time calmed and leaned a hip against armillary table with Jack’s staff against one shoulder. 

“While that is a cute answer, that is not correct,” he said amusedly, “Granted, humans have long since lost touch with origins of various kinds – religion, language, bloodlines, etcetera. But that is not why there are twelve numbers on a clock.”

Jack clenched his fists, suddenly becoming impatient. 

“Look, I like fun trivia as much as the next guy, but…isn’t the world kind of falling apart right now? Why am I here? Why did you lead me here?” he asked.

Time cocked his head, his smile quirking to one side. He was _amused_. “I wouldn’t say ‘falling apart’. After all, it’s not like this has never happened. And I did not lead you here.” 

Jack reeled back as if struck, gaping at Time. “Hasn’t…wait, this has happened before?”

The temporal man hummed thoughtfully. “Well, not _exactly_ like this, but yes, events like this have happened before. Numerous times.”

Jack scrubbed his hands over his face, becoming increasingly confused and frustrated. He had to focus, they were literally getting nowhere in the conversation. 

“Okay…okay, look, I just…I just want to know why I’m here. _Something_ led me here, and I would like to know why so I can get back home and…!” Jack paused. And do _what?_ He literally had no idea of what to do now to help make the situation better. Go back to Hal? Possibly, he probably knew what to do next. Go back to the Guardians? It was an idea, but what would it do? Now wasn’t exactly the time for a confrontation. He was running out of options though, and Pitch…he was not going to last much longer. 

Time suddenly sighed, as if disappointed. “Guardian of Fun indeed…”

Jack blinked, staring at Time in shock. “What?”

Time shrugged, his fingers gently rubbing some imaginary dust from one of the planet-like orbs of his armillary. “You’re not playing by the rules, and therefore, you are making this a very boring and tedious venture.”

Again, Jack found himself extremely confused, if not a tad insulted. Time looked at Jack oddly, almost deadpan; he would have looked it if his eyes were open. 

“Very well, I’ll give you a hint,” he said, approaching Jack again. “The answers to your questions, and to the questions you do not yet know to ask, are the prizes. To win these prizes, you need to play the game by the rules, and by its cues. You cannot take shortcuts, you cannot race ahead, slow down, or try to take alternative routes. You need to…be creative, if you will.”

Jack stared at Time in bewilderment. But slowly, in his head, he was beginning to find a pattern. A whisper of his fun-loving magic tickled in the back of his mind, repeating Time’s words in a mantra.

_“To win these prizes, you need to play the game by the rules…”_ he had said. 

The game, the rules, the prizes…

It suddenly clicked for Jack, and he found himself almost flinching at the brutal realization. Time grinned, fingers dancing over Jack’s staff.

“Do you know why a clock has twelve numbers?” he asked again. 

This time, Jack shook his head. “No, I don’t. Why are there twelve numbers on a clock?”

Time chuckled, flitting away from his armillary and sauntering towards the other side of the room. Jack, not wanting to fall behind on the invisible chess board, followed.

“Though it fits in for the human’s strange need for a linear timetable, the reason for twelve numbers is actually quite simple,” Time said, stopping and turning on his heels to face Jack. He turned his chin downwards, giving the impression of looking down. Jack did the same.

He blinked at the large circle of marble-like cobalt just at the edges of his and Time’s toes. Within the circle were numerous rings of silver and gold of various sizes. At the circle’s very center, there was a large, vinyl record-sized cog. Etched all around it were what appeared to be thousands upon thousands of tiny runes and symbols Jack could not place origin or name to. In its very center, a gold disk was seen. And etched upon it was the Roman Numeral for the number one. 

Jack looked up suddenly, and around the planetarium’s floor. He could see more blue circles around the central device; twelve in total, all seemingly boasting a large cog, and a number in their centers. 

Slowly, he looked back at Time, who smiled in approval. 

“What are these?” Jack asked. 

“These are what mark the beginning, and the end of every universe that ever was, is, or shall be,” Time said. He gestured to the circle between them. “All universes, all timelines, have marker points. These gears are recordings and markers for the most important events of a timeline. They are the turning points, the path the universe has chosen out of a billion to take.”

Jack gaped at Time, disbelieving. “Like…these are literally the records of things that happened that…determine the future?”

Time hummed. “You could say that, I suppose. It’s not so simple though. These are essentially the events in time that have had the most impact on the immediate world – Earth. They are the summarizations of why you are currently where you are.”

He gestured out to the other eleven circles. “Each event records itself as it comes to pass. These events do not exist until they actually happen. Sometimes a future event needs to happen before a past event is recorded, so there are often ‘missing’ numbers.”

Jack’s head was reeling, unable to fully keep up with this nonlinear entity known as Time. The Angel suddenly moved, and Jack nearly tripped over himself to follow. They began to circle the room, passing the other dicks and gears as they went. 

“There are twelve events to any universe - the dawn is one, and the dusk, the death, is the last.,” Time said, gesturing to the numbers they passed, “Everything between one and twelve is the catalyst leading up to the end. What those events are depend on the specific universe, but they always, ALWAYS lead to the end. My planetarium and armillary record these events in these twelve gears…”

He suddenly stopped by a circle. Unlike the others, the gear was lacking in runes or symbols, and its center disk was silver, not gold. It also lacked its number – nine. 

“As these events happen, they become a catalyst, reducing the number of possible futures. It’s like a preliminary sequence if you will, where one path may lead to three more, or three hundred more,” Time explained, “But, like a maze, some paths can lead back to where you once were. You will have to choose another path, either taking the same one you did before, or picking a different path and hoping you don’t end up more lost, or back where you started. Regardless of your choice though, the maze gets smaller the more you trek, eliminating paths and roads. Soon, there will only be one last path you can take, and you will not be allowed to turn back…”

Jack shook his head in disbelief, watching each number pass them by. He paused, however, when he came to a gear marked as number two. The runes were tiny and many, but there was a small line of them that was enlarged, like a word set in bold. The word was not spelled in the odd runes though. And more than that, it was not a word, but a _name._

_Kozmotis._

Time chuckled, looking down at the gear Jack was entranced upon. “You found it.”

Jack looked up. “Found it…?”

Time said nothing in answer. Instead, he circled the many numbered gears again, stopping at a different one – number five. Jack startled as his wings quivered, and one of them began to glow. The second largest wing over his left shoulder glowed an ethereal blue-white as it stretched out. The tip of its longest primary gently touched the gear’s center, its strange incandescence dripping onto it. The runes lit up, and to Jack’s shock, began to spin and rotate magically along the metal. Carefully, Time raised his wing, and with it, the gear followed, slowly rotating in the opposite direction of the runes.

Time said nothing in answer. Instead, he approached the gear and looked down on it. Jack startled as his wings quivered, and one of them began to glow. The second largest wing over his left shoulder glowed an ethereal blue-white as it stretched out. The tip of its longest primary gently touched the gear’s center, its strange glow dripping onto it like incandescent paint. The runes lit up, and to Jack’s shock, began to spin and rotate magically along the metal. Carefully, Time raised his wing, and with it, the gear followed, slowly rotating in the opposite direction of the runes.

Time looked over at Jack, his smile inviting and kind. 

“Every event in this room can be played back like a recording,” he said. He reached a hand out to Jack in beckoning. “Would you like to see?”

Warnings screamed in Jack’s head. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to say no, to back away and flee. But he had nowhere to go; he had no idea where he was. And even more than that, he would forfeit the game. Which means he would never get the answers he needed to helping right the world. He would never figure out what he was supposed to do. He would fail everyone; he would not be able to save Pitch…

Pitch will die.

Time’s smile stretched wider as he seemed to read all of this in Jack’s expression. He only became more eager when Jack’s expression hardened, the sprite nodding once in affirmative.

“Excellent choice, frostling,” Time purred. 

“Like I _have_ a choice…” Jack muttered. He winced when Time chuckled.

“You always have a choice, little one. It is simply a matter of…choosing your battles, shall we say?” Time stated, “As it stands, you can easily choose to let events play out without your contribution, but it would turn out to be a rather boring venture…”

Time suddenly waved a hand. “But enough of that. I think you’re going to enjoy this little show.”

Jack was about to snap a nasty comment, but froze as the planetarium shuddered. He gasped, shuffling back as the very walls around him began to shift, falling onto his backside as seams appeared in the walls. The seams widened, the walls themselves sliding away into the floor, and slowly revealing the outside.

Or perhaps ‘outside’ was not an appropriate word. Jack found himself looking up. He wished he hadn’t. 

At first, he thought the newly revealed exterior was painted to look like a starry sky, or perhaps displaying night somewhere. But the depth was far too great, the blackness surrounding him too _alive_ to be a simple mural. The great expanse surrounded him, overbearing and chilling, so much wider than the sky at night.

The night sky above him was not, in fact, a depiction of night. Jack realized he was not just looking into it, but he was now in _space_. The void loomed over him, its stars, galaxies and planets visually standing apart in the most crippling display of vastness. It leered at Jack like a human would a fly; it forced insignificance onto him, pressing down on him until he became smaller and smaller. His gut dropped through his feet, his entire frame trembling, but he was unable to look away from the monstrous void above – all around – him. 

Even below his feet, his only point of stability, was the transparent glass floor and the giant clock face seemingly floating in suspension. He gasped, face blanched and skin clammy as his brain struggled to find some form of stability, a point of reference that could stop him from spiraling into madness under the black of the void. 

A hand suddenly touched his shoulder, and Jack’s body reacted without even a moment’s consideration or thought. He scrambled onto unsteady feet, gasping and wheezing, eyes screwing shut as he buried his face in the soft fabric of Time’s tunic. He clutched at the Angel in animal-like desperation, trying to draw a breath of sanity and safety back into himself. 

Time smiled, amused, but not deterred. He crooned to the terrified spirit clinging to him, keeping a single arm around the trembling frame as he spoke.

“Poor thing,” he cooed, “Such vast emptiness, it must make you feel smaller than you already are.” 

Jack almost wanted to snap at Time, but he could not even find his voice. Every question he wanted to shout was lodged somewhere between his mouth and his brain. Where was he? How did he get into _space_ of all places? _Why_ was he here?!

He flinched when Time petted his hair, a single wing wrapping around him. The feathery limb gave him both a sense of secure relief, but also a sense of dread. 

“Look,” Time said, a shift in his stance telling Jack he was gesturing to something, “You do not want to miss it.”

_I fucking beg to differ!_ Jack wanted to shout. But against every instinct in his body, and any better judgement that wasn’t being decimated by Time himself, he peered out of his hiding spot. He kept his eyes on Time’s chest, his eyes sliding up to the arm not around him, and following it to the hand that still held his staff. Pointing out into the void, Jack bit back a swell of nausea, and forced himself to look out again.

This time, despite the daunting sight, Jack found himself almost breathing out in relief as he took in a much brighter, though no less intimidating, sight. 

At first, he thought he was looking at a blizzard. A very strange, very unnatural blizzard being forced into an almost straight line. But then he saw rocks – meteors and asteroids – and gas-like colors and forms. For one confusing moment, Jack still had to scramble to figure out what he was looking at. He recognized frost and icy formations and particles, glaciers floating in the void. It was so unlike his own ice, charged with something ethereal and far more frigid.

A memory sparked into Jack’s mind; one that he wished he could forget, simply for who was also in the memory.

Jamie had once showed him his new astronomy book – a thick tome stuffed full of diagrams, pictures and vital information. Most of said information was a bit too high-level for either of them to understand, but the pictures and simpler commentary were enough for the two youngsters.

Jack and Jamie sat in the human boy’s room, the youngest of the two unfolding an expanded page that nearly spanned the entire length of his bed. He pointed to each planet in order, reciting their names…

_“Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, and…”_

_“Saturn!” Jack said before Jamie could finish. The boy grinned._

_“That’s right!” he exclaimed, looking at some of the factoid bubbles around the mentioned planet. “It says here Saturn has a rotational time of ten hours, thirty-two minutes, and thirty-five seconds. Geez, short days…”_

_“No kidding…” Jack said._

_“And sixty-two moons, second only to Jupiter…” Jamie said in awe. He looked up at Jack curiously. “Do you think Manny has cousins on those moons? If he does, he’s got a huge family!”_

_Jack’s smile was strained. “I don’t know, maybe! I think he’s the only moon-guy that we know of…” He looked at Jamie’s window, uncertain of the now waxing gibbous moon._

_The young boy hummed thoughtfully. “I wonder if he gets lonely up there, all by himself…”_

_Jack did not respond._

“Saturn…” he rasped, gaping at the tiny fraction of the gas-giant’s ring from Time’s arms, “I’m on _Saturn…?_ ” 

Time shook his head. “Not _on_ it. No, you are _inside_ it.”

Jack felt like he was going to faint, his fingers nearly clawing into Time’s torso in a death-grip. He swallowed back bile, cringing at the tight, painful pressure in his throat. His eyes slid back to Time’s hand, more specifically, his staff. 

_“I wonder if he gets lonely up there, all by himself…”_

Jack felt Time slightly loosen his hold on the sprite, causing Jack to only tighten his grip on the Angel. Time chuckled, amused.

“Do not worry,” he said, “I won’t let you fall.”

_‘I really doubt that…’_ Jack thought dubiously. 

Regardless of his doubts, he looked back at Time’s armillary, and tried to focus on the floating gear rather than the daunting nothingness behind it. The Angel’s wings shifted, settling into their default positions – sans the wing holding the sixth gear – as the fifth gear slowly spun and hovered over the central crystal orb. Time lifted the hand around Jack to his chest, and gently touched his fingers to the clock in his left pectoral.

“Take a deep breath,” he said.

Before Jack could question Time, the face of his internal clock began to glow, and the hands began to move – counterclockwise. And in perfect sync, the clock hands below their feet also began to move, slowly at first, spinning with the same speed of the gear and Time’s internal clock hands. The planetarium rumbled and hummed, and just outside, Jack could only gape as Saturn’s rings also began to fly backwards. Everything was moving now, spinning in the reverse of time and space; the planets on the armillary table, the clock hands, Time’s internal clock, Saturn’s rings, _everything._

Jack’s very breath slowly began to be sucked from his lungs, making him cough and gasp. The hands sped up, the gear now spinning like a top. The orb in the center of the armillary began to glow a bright blue-white, and within seconds, it spat out a single, concentrated beam into the gear’s central glass. Like a movie projector, the device’s parts began to come to life, spinning and whirring, creaking and groaning as the light traveled up and expanded, converging with the glass-like ceiling. A fantastic fountain of light and movement, it spurted at the top and spilled in an almost perfect dome of light and color within the planetarium. Every star, planet and galaxy began to move, flying back in a whirlwind of temporal and spatial madness. 

The light grew brighter and brighter, everything spinning faster and faster. Jack’s lungs were scrambling for air. The very pressure of movement made him feel like he was being crushed, being pulled apart yet forced inward in a suffocating compression. 

He choked, his grasp on Time weakening. And just when he was sure he would die of the maddening light he could not close his eyes to, it all _stopped._

In a blink of icy blue eyes, and a gasp of stifled breath, Jack found himself looking not into Time’s planetarium, but into thick, all-consuming darkness. He blinked, as if to clear his vision, or perhaps to prove that his eyes were open, but he still found he could not see. His fingers flexed around Time’s tunic, the only source of dubious reality he had. He could feel his eyes straining in the blackness, feeling as if his pupils would tear as they expanded and tried to find a source of light. 

He was about to voice his confusion and discomfort, but found himself silenced when a blue light slowly formed into existence. He blinked, the light overly bright to his overwhelmed eyes. But they quickly adjusted, and Jack found the source of light to be Time’s internal clock. Subdued shafts of dim light also seemed to appear, sliding out from between the feathers of his wings like gossamer blades. 

Jack blinked, eyes adjusting to the new sources of light. “Where-?”

He could faintly see Time put a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture, still smiling down at the sprite. Jack frowned, his hands slowly releasing Time’s tunic. Once fully freed, Time’s smile widened, and the finger against his hand moved and pointed in front of them. 

Jack looked ahead, eyes narrowing in a squint. He could see…something. Something tall and jagged, like a cliff in the distance. He could also see a very faint, very weak line of white light. It seemed to try and reach out from in between the jagged from and a long, spear-like protrusion. He could also see something faintly moving against the sharply cut form; it’s upper surface seemed to pulse in slow, steady tandem. 

Jack crept slightly closer, staring at the point where the pole pierced the tall form. It moved up and down in such a slow and steady rhythm. Like someone was breathing…

And then he saw it. Two points of thin white light, both marked by milky, overly wide disks of foggy grey. Jack gasped and scrambled back, nearly crashing into Time’s chest, but the delicate Angel held firmly rooted to his spot. His hand come down to grasp Jack’s shoulder, and they both stared at the shadow-cloaked creature held pinned to the jagged rock. Time with a smile, and Jack with horrified realization.

The creature resembled a tall, lanky man donned in an ominous attire of the darkest coal-black and the bloodiest red. Hair like a wild lion’s mane lay limp and plastered to the back of the rock, as if once damp and now frozen in place. It was impossible to discern any details in the darkness, even with Time’s brittle light, but Jack could see his eyes. Closed save for the tiniest slit, revealing eyes of bright, sickly white and dull silver. The pupils were blown wide and clouded, as if from sickness, or perhaps death. The disks held an eerie sort of tangibility though, like peering at a scratched mirror through magnified glass; light-refracting. 

Jack’s eyes slid to the chest, a sense of unnerving cold-hot washing over him in horror. A spear of a make he could not identify protruded from the man’s chest, the faintest bit of its spearhead seen at the surface. The head seemed to be made of some kind of crystal or glass, and there was a weak, starved light emitting from it. 

Regardless of the unfamiliar eyes, the wild hair, and the unrecognizable clothing, Jack knew exactly who this person was. 

“P-…Pitch…” he rasped, gaping in horror at the paralyzed and imprisoned man. He made to scramble back to the trapped Boogeyman, but the hand on his shoulder tightened and help him in place. Jack looked up at Time desperately.

“I have to help him!” he snapped.

Time shook his head. “You can’t help him, frostling. This event has already happened. You cannot help him either way, regardless.”

“Why not?!” Jack snarled, tearing away from Time’s hand. The Angel seemed amused. He made no attempt to restrain Jack, and instead passed Jack’s staff along to his freed hand.

“By all means,” he said, gesturing to Pitch, “Free him. I can guarantee you will fail.”

Jack snarled at the temporal entity, not the least bit amused. This was a mistake. He never should have agreed to any of this. He looked back at Pitch, at his pale, dead eyes and the light-starved weapon pinning him to the rock. He gave no thought whatsoever to his actions, and strode towards the Boogeyman. He reached out as he drew closer, intent on grabbing the damnable spear and-!

_And…_

Time’s chuckle slithered through Jack’s ears like a parasitic snake, gnawing on his raw nerves. The frost sprite stared, a mixture of confusion and flickering disbelief somehow simultaneously steeling and thinning his resolve into brittle glass. He stood before Pitch and the spear, looking down at his hand in confusion. He had reached for the spear, but…he missed it? 

He reached up again, hesitating for just one moment, before he grasped the spear. But he did not feel it. He did not even touch it. 

His hand passed right through the spear, his very form even less than a ghostly presence. 

He felt Time step up behind him, his blind gaze locking onto the imprisoned Boogeyman. His smile seemed to be the brightest thing in the cavern, but it was also the cruelest. 

“As I said, frostling,” he said, “These events can be _played back_ , I never said you could alter them. You can no more interfere in this playback than you could watching a car-crash in a human movie.”

Jack did not seem to hear him, but Time’s words sunk in like scalding molasses. It burned and stuck to his very bones like tar, pungent and impossible to strip away. He was stunned, struck dumb by the revelation and by this familiar yet unfamiliar entity. He was _different_ , so much… _less_ than what he should be. This was not the Pitch Black he knew so little about. This was a stranger, and yet…!

He looked up at Time, eyes wide and _pleading._

_Play the game._

“What happened to him…?” Jack asked breathlessly. Time’s smile stretched to one side in wry amusement. He shrugged.

“The same thing that happens to all good men who are punished for only wanting to protect,” he said.

Time suddenly stepped back, looking off to the side and into the darkness of the cavern. Jack did likewise, and he found himself frowning in confusion. The shadows…did not seem right. He could not discern whether or not it was simply his unadjusted eyes casting an illusion, but he would swear that the darkness was…not moving, but _writhing_.

He gasped as Time’s light dimmed, instinctively shuffling closer to the Angel who continued to smile into the thick, growing darkness. And when his light was not but a washed flicker, an easily dismissed trick of the eye, Jack saw them. 

With eyes of washed-out grey and white, and grins that would make the Cheshire Cat himself roll over and die, the Fearlings within the small cave seemed to plaster to the walls like putrid mold. Their whispers and hisses grew as Time’s light dimmed, finally weak enough for them to look past and continue to watch their captive king. Jack trembled, but he could not help but look; he felt like a spectator in an aquarium. He stared into the surrounding tanks of deadly sharks and other predators, the only thing separating them being a few inches of glass and metal, and gallons of thick, salty water. 

He felt Time grasp his shoulder again, a soft rasp of hair and gauzy silk alerting Jack to his shifting to lean over him slightly. A tiny tug at his shoulder had him looking back at Pitch, his eyes seemingly glued to the phantom-like entity. Time’s light increased ever so slightly, but not enough to send the taunting eyes of the Fearlings away. Just enough to see, but not enough to look away.

It made Jack want to cry, to scream and find some way to break the purgatory-like curse so he could free the Boogeyman. Just looking at the man who both was and was not Pitch sent a pang into new depths of his being; a harpoon laced with acid and poison, it reached the deepest and darkest recesses of his heart. It reached a place in him he never knew existed, yet he still found himself guarding heavily throughout his entire life. 

It _hurt_. It hurt _so much_ , and he could not put into words as to _why_.

“You do not understand how this could be Pitch Black,” he said sultrily, “You cannot associate this sad, pitiful creature with the dark yet warm man you are ever so slowly longing to know, to touch, to be near. You do not know who this is, yet you find yourself marveling at how familiar he is. You wish to know more, but deep inside of you, you know this creature cannot give you the answers you seek. Not yet anyways.”

Jack wanted to scream, to rave and sob and plead. How Time could simultaneously right his own jumbled thoughts and completely decimate his sanity was a mystery he wanted no part of. But Jack could not turn away. He could not look away from this juxtapose presented to him, nor could he deny the poison-sweet words dripping from Time’s lips. 

He flinched when Time’s hand left his shoulder and, to his confusion, slid over to shield his eyes. His body stiffened as he felt the soft rasp of Time’s wings along the floor, their mass encompassing him in a soft yet suffocating embrace. A darkness so unlike the one filling the cavern overtook Jack, and he suddenly did not know which was worse. 

“Don’t blink,” Time whispered.

Jack gasped as he felt his very atoms and cells seemingly vibrating as one. His breath was sucked right out of him as before, his muscles turning to sludge and his bones to jelly in the briefest moment. A flash of something he could not call light passed through his eyes like lighting. And with a speed faster than physically possible, he began to see things; places, people, faces both familiar and unfamiliar.

He saw a small village tucked away within the walls of a magical forest. He saw beautiful, avian-like women ruling the sky and dancing with the wind. He saw a kinder depth of space from the safety of a golden ship – a shooting star. He saw ancient people rapidly growing in populace and advancement, then all but one fading from the very face of existence.

He saw North, clearly in his prime, fit and his hair not yet bleached by age. Toothiana, her face no longer sweet and softened with energetic excitement, now hardened by strife and wrath. Sandy, still aglow with the power of dreams and wishes, yet he more resembled hard stone than gentle dune-tides. And Bunnymund, dressed in the deep greens of spring, his eyes filled to brimming with an intelligence and quiet, stoic resolve Jack would never imagine him possessing. 

He saw three more people that he did not fully recognize, but a flash of memory from a stained-glass room matched their appearances. A man older than North, long of white beard and donned in deep reds and snowy white. The ancient man was brimming with magic, his furious, stormy gaze crumbling stone and burning foliage. 

Next was a girl. She could not have been that much older than Jamie when Jack had first met him. Soft chestnut hair and brown eyes adorned her childish features, her form safely away from the battle, and her cream and brown attire blending well within the wooded foliage and rocky outcrops. 

And lastly, a boy around the girl’s age, but Jack could tell just by looking at him that he was no boy. He was something else entirely, something that was never human, that simply…existed. Like starlight converging into a ghostly form, the boy flew through the air with daggerlike precision, starlit whorls curling about his strange, night-black armor. And in his hands…

The faces were suddenly yanked from Jack’s sight, and in a cascade of mind-breaking sights, sounds and sensations, Jack witnessed the very events that brought them all together. 

Pitch, breaking from the spear binding his heart, mind and body. A boy made from starlight and silence – _Nightlight_ , a voice whispered – and a girl, equally as silent, yet with so much to tell in the care of an ancient man – _Katherine, Ombric…_

He saw each and every one of the Guardians as they once were. Alone, unfulfilled, longing for a purpose, for a home, for a _family._

Jack saw it all; Manny’s choosing of the Guardians, leading them on missions disguised as the urgent need for _more_ ; more soldiers, more toys, more _things_ to call his own, to say he was not lonely, to say he _owned_ everything he could possibly want. 

The innocence of a girl was slowly being stripped away to feed Manny’s need to take it for himself. Nightmares plagued her, leaving her aged and scarred inside. She held on for as long as she could, but she was breaking. 

And in the final showdown, with Toothiana now a part of Manny’s collection, Katherine at Pitch’s mercy, the Guardians’ wrath crossing a line they did not even know existed, their intent screamed in Jack’s mind like a fatal curse.

_Kill Pitch Black._

But before anything could be done to the beaten and battered Boogeyman, another flash was seen – this time of actual lightning. The wind shrieked and battered at the Guardians, and with a sick, ear-splitting crack, a woman dressed in emerald greens and cloaked by wild, storm-black hair appeared. 

Eyes of wrathful obsidian pierced them all, and before anyone could voice question or confusion, she, Pitch and Katherine were gone.

And like someone had slammed the breaks on reality itself, Jack felt his entire being slam into a wall, his empty lungs heaving as they tried to dispel nonexistent air from the impact. He choked and gagged, feeling his body wavering and disintegrating from existence.

Yet at the last minute, just a fraction of a second before his very existence tore itself off its hinges, it all stopped. 

In a disorienting blink, Jack found himself back where he once was. His eyes covered by Time’s hand, and his entire body cocooned in his wings. He choked on a gasp, his throat tight and covered in sand. The shock of the entire ordeal could be vaguely compared to being throw unsuspecting into the most frigid, rapid waters of the ocean, and the effect left Jack feeling like there was salt water in his lungs, stomach, and throat. It saturated his bones and leeched into his brain, tinging his thoughts and turning his blood to sludge. 

Another blink, and Jack found himself no longer trapped in Time’s embrace. Instead, he appeared to be back in the cavern they started in. But it was different, large and vast, the walls worn smooth and round. The pillar Pitch was once pinned to was the only thing standing in the otherwise spherical cavern.

Jack startled when, just behind him, he felt Time move and press his crook back into his hand. 

“Stay put,” Time purred.

Jack was in the process of trying to figure out what to say to the temporal man, when a sudden crackle of electricity and brittle earth caught his attention. He gasped as Mother Nature appeared from the dust, along with two forms laying limp at her feet. 

“Time!” she snapped clearly agitated and anxious, “Where have you been?!”

“Yes, yes…” Time said airily, stepping around Jack to approach the irate woman, “I’m coming, my dear. No need to shout.” 

Nature snarled, causing Jack to reel back in shock. He’s seen Nature angry – he witnessed it firsthand when he and Sandy took her into Pitch’s lair to free him, and again when she tortured Tooth without a thought. But this was an entirely different level of fury for her, and it frightened Jack. But somehow, Time’s words compelled him to stay where he was. Nature didn’t even seem to notice him, yet he was confused as to how she was interacting with Time. 

“I am in no mood for your games!” she snapped at the Angel, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides, “We had a deal, now it’s your turn to deliver. I will not be kept waiting another minute!”

Time smiled, but said nothing. He simply looked past Nature when the youngest of their guests started coming to. The girl, Katherine, was the first to rise with a confused sigh, eyes blinking blearily at Nature and Time. She gasped, trying to scramble back from the two unknown entities. She was stopped, however, by Nature raising a hand and summoning a thick root behind Katherine’s back to keep her in place. 

“That was not very nice,” Time chided, smiling at the frightened girl, “She’s clearly unsettled, perhaps a gentler hand should be used?”

Both Katherine and Jack flinched and gasped when Nature whipped around and slapped Time full across the face. The temporal man did not seem the least bit swayed though, and only rubbed his cheek with a raised brow. 

Nature was hissing through her teeth, her fury palpable. It made Jack wonder how Pitch could still be unconscious; no one should be able to stay asleep with the irate woman within the vicinity. 

“ _Tempus_ *, I swear by all that is unholy and evil in this world, I will show no mercy if you do not uphold your end of the deal and HELP HIM!” Nature shouted.

Time’s expression became blank; he did not seem to react. Instead, he merely sighed and looked back at Katherine. His smile returned in full as he approached her and held a hand out to her.  
“Don’t be frightened, little one,” he crooned, his aura expanding and brightening, and suddenly he was the most beautiful thing in the room. Nature was avidly looking away with a disgusted scowl, but Jack and Katherine seemed to stare at the Angel in pure enthrallment.

The young girl reached up a shaking hand, her eyes never leaving the ethereal entity as he gently pulled her to her feet. She whined when Time prevented her from getting any closer, but soon calmed when he cupped her cheek. His smile was radiant, and Jack had to fight with every fiber of his being not to push Katherine away to gain Time’s attention. Time had given him an order, and he had to fulfill it. 

Katherine was nearly on her tiptoes as Time began stepping back, nearly tripping over her own feet as she shuffled to keep in contact with the Angel. Time stopped so Katherine stood right next to Jack, then walked around them as he dropped his glamour. Katherine blinked dumbly, stunned and confused.

“Wh-what the…?” she rasped, before her resolve steeled and she stared at Time and Nature. “Who are you?! Why am I here?!”

“Hush,” Nature said, her tone somewhat calmer, but still carrying a sense of anxious urgency, “You will not be harmed, nor will we keep you long. We needed a witness.”

“Witness…?” both Jack and Katherine echoed in confusion. As one, they looked at Time, Jack more critically than Katherine. The Angel smiled, and with them standing so close together, Katherine completely oblivious to the boy that did not yet exist, he could have been speaking to any one of them.

“Yes,” he said, strolling over to Pitch. He gazed down at the still unconscious Boogeyman, kneeling by him. He reached out a hand to stroke a sallow cheek, ignoring Nature’s hiss of warning. He looked back up at Nature with his trademark gentle smile.

“Shall we begin?” he inquired. 

Nature scoffed, but did not waste any time. Katherine and Jack watched as she marched over to Pitch and Time. Wordlessly, she bent at the waist and plucked something tucked in Pitch’s hair – a bright orange Poppy*. And within seconds, he began to twitch and rouse, Katherine inhaling sharply as his ghostly, silver-white eyes opened.

He groaned like an ill, lethargic animal. The cloak he wore was torn and frayed from the previous fight, and it wasn’t until he was on his hands and knees did Jack see it.

He blanched and felt nausea churn in his gut as he stared at Pitch’s hand – or what he assumed had been his hand. At one point, perhaps it had been his hand, but now it was no such thing. The flesh from the elbow down was pale – _humanly_ pale and thin, the fingers wrapped – _merged_ ¬ – around an oval item. Jack stared at it, the faded image and its flat surface, and he suddenly remember where he had seen it.

_Sorrows’ locket…_

“How…?” he rasped.

No one heard him, but Time smiled as Pitch seemed to regain himself and spring to his feet with an animalistic snarl. 

“You…!” he roared, looking around in wild confusion and anger, “Who dares bring me here?!”

Time chuckled, approaching Pitch without a care. The wrathful Boogeyman hissed and snarled, his one good hand going to the sword strapped to his hip and hidden by his cloak. He swung it with wild precision, but it never met its mark. Roots sprung from the ground and overwhelmed Pitch, binding his arms and legs. Pitch shrieked, the sound unnatural and making Jack and Katherine feel ill.

Time clicked his tongue, stopping before the tightly bound Boogeyman. He reached out and plucked the sword from Pitch’s grasp, his smile never wavering. 

“Poor thing,” he crooned, “You must be suffering so much right now.”

He held up a hand when Nature made to march over to him and possibly tear his jaw right out of his skull. He watched Pitch writhe and scream, the pale, malformed arm oddly limp. He did not even flinch when Katherine made to speak.

“What…what are you going to do to him…?” she asked tightly. 

Jack looked from Katherine to the two powerful entities surrounding Pitch. He was all too eager to have an answer for that exact question. So much confusion, like grains of jagged sand, seemed to whirl within his skull like a sandstorm. Nameless and faceless emotions plagued him, gnawing at him. 

“Don’t hurt him…” he found himself rasping, “Please, don’t hurt him…”

Time cocked his head at them, apparently amused. “He will not be hurt, little one. Rather, after this, he should feel better than ever, if not more stable.”

He suddenly turned to Nature, tapping Pitch’s pilfered sword in his hand. “If you will, my dear?”

Mother Nature’s scowl darkened, but she made no protest. Instead, she flicked her hand, prompting the roots to lowering Pitch. He snapped and hissed as they pushed him down onto his knees. Time knelt before the Boogeyman, chuckling almost giddily when Pitch tried to snap his teeth at his hand as he reached for him.

“You remind me of someone just as mad,” Time purred, seemingly studying Pitch, “He was full of nothing but baseless anger and the drive for revenge. His very existence was meaningless, made only to be a parasite and a disease for others to deal with…”

Pitch spat at Time, landing a black blob of saliva on a pale cheek. Time’s kind smile sharpened into something malicious, something beckoning and eager.

He reached up and wiped the spit off his cheek with a thumb. “Such fire for such a hideous little worm…”

“Leave him alone!” Somewhere in Jack’s mind, he was startled that _both_ he and Katherine had shouted these words. Nonexistent as he was, Katherine did not notice, but he did. 

Time looked over at Katherine and Jack. He suddenly rose to his feet, his wings shuffling softly to realign themselves. With quiet steps, he approached the two youngsters, both of which took a simultaneous step back as Time stood before them.

“I find it interesting…” he started with a sultry purr, “How you could have so much compassion for the one man who has turned your entire life upside-down, who destroyed any chance you had of finding out where you came from, who stole you away and plagued you with unimaginable nightmares and fear. I find it _amusing_ …how he could steal your childhood from you, and yet you must feel the need to defend him, when your fellow Guardians not just moments ago all unanimously decided he had to die.”

Both Katherine and Jack were shaking, staring up at the mad temporal Angel. And like an echo from the deepest cavern, connecting a far off, hazy past to an even more uncertain future, Jack and Katherine began to speak at once.

“He did terrible things, but he doesn’t deserve to be killed,” they said, their voices shaky yet determined, “He never asked for this, _no one_ would ask for this…!”

Jack swallowed thickly around the lump in his throat. And while he was silent, Katherine spoke without him.

“No one is born evil,” she said, her eyes narrowing in a poor attempt to glare, “Evil is never born, it is _made!_ ”

Jack blinked, staring in stunned shock at Katherine. Evil is never born, she had said. Evil is never born, it is made. Her words resonated within Jack somewhere, and from the depths of his own mind, something seemed to light up in understanding. 

Evil is never born, it is _made._

So what could have possibly made Pitch into that which was evil…?

Jack startled from his resolve at a sound. He looked up, veering back in bewildered shock as Time, a hand over his mouth and his shoulders shaking, began to _laugh._

He laughed like Katherine just told him the greatest joke in the world, throwing his head back as his smiling mouth gaped, exposing the pale column of his delicate throat, his perfect white teeth flashing. An arm clutched around his middle as he laughed, the other coming up to demurely cover his mouth as he slowly calmed, his expression of ecstatic glee. 

“Hahahah! Oh, child…” he rasped, “You foolish, brilliant human…! Such words should be wielded by one who has experienced the world at its brightest and its darkest. You have only seen light, and a bare fraction of darkness. And yet you go spewing such words, and you _believe_ them…!”

He laughed again, his voice growing shrill. He slowly wound down from his hysterics, oblivious to the disturbed gaping of the youngest witnesses, and the scowling and wary gaze of Mother Nature. Pitch, however, seemed to be staring at Katherine. His expression was unreadable, but something seemed to flash in and out of his eyes like a flickering lightbulb. 

Sighing breathlessly, Time’s smile became a miserable hybrid of beautiful radiance and malicious darkness. 

“Very well then!” he exclaimed, spreading his arms out to his sides, “Let us waste no more time, and make something else of Pitch Black!”

Katherine and Jack blanched. “What are you- _no!_ ” Katherine yelped as more roots sprung from the ground, this time to bind her and keep her from chasing after Time.

Turning on his heels, the temporal Angel marched towards Pitch with a frightening sense of predatory anticipation. Time reached down with his free hand, grasping the surprised Boogeyman by the front of his cloak, and hefted him up. The roots binding Pitch shuddered and split from their bases, leaving Pitch bound in the excess and free to be moved by Time.

Jack stared at the bound and struggling Katherine as she pleaded with Nature and Time for Pitch’s life – there had to be another way, please don’t hurt him, he needs _help_ not an execution!

He then looked over at Time, his resolve suddenly steeling and _burnin_ g. Gripping his staff firmly, fury overriding his shock and confusion, he rushed at Time.

“Let him go!” he snapped.

Time turned swiftly, one of his wings batting Jack away like an irritating fly. The sprite choked as the wind was knocked out of him, leaving him heaving and coughing on the floor. Clutching his chest, he gaped up at Time as the Angel passed, Pitch struggling in his grasp but unable to gain a foothold.

Nature followed behind Time, her expression tight and, to Jack’s astonishment, pained. Her eyes were glassy, as if in resignation, but there was a restrained and exhausted fire behind her obsidian orbs. There was a longing in them, an anguish she could not voice and Jack could not name. 

Nature said and did nothing when Time roughly pinned Pitch to the single pillar in the cave, ignoring Katherine’s pleas. Time chuckled sultrily, pressing his torso into Pitch’s as he gazed up blindly at the Boogeyman, one hand clutching his cloak, the other held to the side with Pitch’s sword. 

“Tell me, my lovely, hideous Boogeyman,” Time crooned, nearly nose to nose with the startled shade, “What do a caterpillar and a seed have in common?”

Pitch was given no time to answer, as before he could even wonder at the odd question being spouted by the mad entity holding him pinned, Time had flicked his wrist, gained a tight hold on the sword, and plunged it into his black gut. 

“ _NO!_ ” Katherine and Jack shrieked in horror.

Pitch lurched, eyes impossibly wide and body faintly trembling. He choked as Time pushed the sword in further until it bypassed Pitch’s back and buried itself deeply into the stone. Time stepped back and released both him and the sword, leaving Pitch to hang off the floor, pinned like a butterfly on display. 

An airy chuckle left Time as he regarded his handiwork, not unlike a painter scrutinizing his latest masterpiece. Pitch could only cough and struggle weakly to yank the sword out, to no avail. Black blood dripped from his wound and his mouth, forming a black starburst below his feet.

Time suddenly waved a hand, a silver and gold staff forming in his hand. Its top seemed to boast a miniature, suspended version of the armillary table in his planetarium, the small metal balls representing planets slowly orbiting the glowing gold orb of the sun in the center. 

“Now then…” he said, regarding his staff, “What shall crown this would-be king? What does one use to burn a witch, and warm the cold?”

“Time…” Nature finally spoke, her teeth audibly grinding, her eyes flicking between the Angel, Katherine and Pitch. 

Time did not respond, and only continued to look over the planets orbiting the sun atop his staff. He hummed thoughtfully as Jupiter passed his gaze, and within the gap of the next planet, stared into the orb of the sun. His smile slowly stretched into something unnatural and hauntingly excited.

“Ah, yes, I almost forgot to answer my own question,” he said, looking up at Pitch, “What do a caterpillar and a seed have in common?”

Pitch snarled weakly, unable to answer as he coughed up his own blood. Time chuckled, suddenly pausing when a tight snap was heard, followed by a furious and angry cry. He didn’t even budge when Katherine plunged the knife she had used to escape her binds into Time’s waist. Jack gasped, fingers digging into the ground as he gaped at the borderline homicidal young girl. Time, however, did not even flinch. Rather, he looked down with a smile at the frightened girl. Trembling, she backed away in sudden apprehension as he reached down, wrapping his fingers around the dagger handle. With a wet squelch, he pulled it out, the blade now coated in his silvery, starlit blood. 

“North taught you well,” he said, continuing to hold the dagger as he regarded Pitch once more. “Now, where was I…? Oh, yes…”

He banished his staff into nothingness, yet he kept the dagger. Katherine gaped, about to make a break for the Angel again, but was stopped by not a root, but a firm hand around her arm. She looked up in terror at Nature, who seemed caught between a scowl and a gaze of sympathy.

“Do not interfere,” she said, “He will not be harmed any more than necessary.”

“He is already hurt!” Katherine snapped, her voice cracking. Nature’s hand tightened around her arm, making her wince. 

“Change is painful,” Nature said tightly, “Birth is painful. Neither are more painful than they should be. Now be silent, and watch.”

Eyes swimming, her entire body trembling, Katherine looked up, as did Jack. The frost sprite, caught in a loose chokehold by what he was seeing, could only shakily climb to his feet and lean on his staff as Time approached Pitch. 

The Boogeyman coughed weakly, drained and on the verge of fading from blood-loss. He dazedly looked at Time as the Angel tenderly cupped his cheek. 

“What a caterpillar and a seed have in common is simple,” he said, “After they endure the post painful process of change, they both become something beautiful. A caterpillar is but a mere seed waiting to grow into a butterfly, and a seed is but the helpless larva waiting to change into a tree…”

He brought the dagger up, still coated in his own blood, and touched the stained blade to his full lips.

“And you, dear Pitch Black, Kozmotis Pitchiner – you both will no longer exist. Just as a seed and caterpillar trade their very existence for something new, you both will trade your individual lives for something _beautiful_.” 

He suddenly reached down and grasped the hilt of the sword. And with a strength no one would suspect the petite man to possess, he twisted and shifted it until the once steady stream of black blood became a river. Pitch choked on his scream, hands scrambling for Time’s own, but were found to be too slippery and weak. The floor below him was more akin to the concrete floor of a slaughterhouse, or perhaps something even more sinister.

The shock did not stop Katherine from screaming at Time to stop. Nature did nothing. Jack, however, found his strength again, and scrambled to his feet to rush at Time in a desperate sprint, his staff brandished. 

“You’re killing him!” he shouted, reaching out to strike Time.

But as before with the spear, so it happened all over again. Jack ran right _through_ Time. He stared into nothingness in shock, looking down at his hands and staff, as if they had betrayed him. He looked over his shoulder at Time and Pitch, the darker of the two grimacing and crying out in apparent agony. Time was serene as always. His smile was gentle, but Jack could no longer see it for the mask it was. No, Time had no compassion or kindness. He was a cruel entity, merciless in all his heartless ways. How he could be called an Angel, Jack would never know. 

He only knew that, in this moment, he _hated_ Time…

“Now then…” Time’s wings rose and stretched from his body. He dropped the dagger off to the side and out of the way as he looked at Pitch. 

Jack flinched and backed away until he was standing next to Nature and Katherine. Something in the air shifted. A low, rumbling roar overtook his and the others’ ears. Time took a few steps back just as Nature grasped Katherine’s shoulders and pulled her back against a wall. Jack, whether by instinct or coincidence, followed.

All three watched Time’s wings stretch into their full display, and unseen, the seams between his closed eyelids fluttered and incandesced. Burning, white-hot light seemed to slowly be trying to peer through his eyes. So powerful in its heat and brightness, silvery blood began to bleed from his eyes and streak down his face. The starlit fluid seemed to boil and blacken from the immense heat seeping from his eyes, reverberating throughout his entire body and filling the cavern with its overbearing burn. 

Time was not the least bit cowed, and he directed his blind, smiling face to the Boogeyman now hanging on the brink. He now hung suspended in a place not even Death could reach, and would not even attempt to. It was that place between birth and death, that final moment before the final crescendo reached its final ascension and became life. 

As if beckoned, Pitch raised his heavy head to look at Time. And just between the arches of his wings, Jack was stunned to see Pitch’s eyes. They were as grey and bleak as before, but now he could see fragile, draining _life_ within them. His tears were no longer black, but were rather as clear and pure as the salty waters should be. 

His lips trembled as they opened, the roar in their ears growing louder. Yet over it all, they could hear a silent, pleading whisper…

“Sera-” 

And with the cruelest intent, it was cut short. Faster than any one of them could even think, their eyes and bodies were assaulted. The very world around them vanished, and in its place…

_Light…_

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N~ More to come VERY soon! The next chapter, since it was split off from this chapter, is about 1/3rd of the way done, but I make no promises as to when it will be published. School is kicking my ass now, so I’m kind of trying to budget my time for writing. 
> 
> Be sure to check out the A/N to win a SaD themed prize! 
> 
> 1.) A dodecagon is a twelve-sided, symmetrical shape! Or so that's what I gathered from Google; don't ask me about shapes guys, I have zero comprehension of angles, right or otherwise, or what their 'proper' names and categories are. Bottom line is this room has twelve even sides, and an even circumference. The end.
> 
> 2.) A so far unreleased OC, Laplace is one of the two last living Pooka in the universe. He is Time’s steward and servant, and holds the power of space and reality itself. Supposedly, he was part of the reason the Pookan race was driven into its path of extinction, but no one is certain. He is calm, enigmatic, and eccentric. Bunny hates him with a fiery passion.
> 
> 3.) Time's little minions are steampunk machine-like mice. All of them are identical, and supposedly built by Time himself. Some rumors suggest they inspired the humans' Hickory Dickory Dock nursery rhyme. Others say the rhyme came from something less dignified involving Time and Nature. No one is too sure. The mice are sentient, but need to be wound every now and again, or they stop moving entirely. They seem much friendlier than their master though, and do not seem to bear any of his personality traits. Quiet and unobtrusive, the mice act as Time's messengers, and the literal keys to some of the rooms in his domain, such as his Planetarium. 
> 
> 4.) Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto. Yes, I included Pluto in the number. I don't care what dumbass scientists say, Pluto is a planet and is not excluded from the party, it is an adorable little ball of Chibi Planet and it deserves recognition as a planet GOD DAMNIT. 
> 
> 5.) Time's Armillary Sphere is EXTREMELY complex due to its function. It visually teeters in the realm of a Galileo Armillary sphere, and a bit of Copernicus Armillary sphere. But again, it is much more complex than these mentioned spheres, and has a much more complex and vital function.
> 
> 6.) Want a visual of Time's Armillary table? Google ‘Steampunk Astrolabe by Davison Carvalho’ and you will see!
> 
> 7.) 'Tempus' is a Latin word for 'time', and one of Father Time's many names. In a human sense, this is akin to his full name. Recall from childhood when you're caught doing something naughty and your parents call you by your full name - first, middle and last name included. This is basically the same thing for Time. His other names include Chronos, Saturn, Pakiž, and other variations of the word ‘time’ and temporal entities.
> 
> 8.) The California poppy contains protopine, which has similar (but much milder effects) as morphine, making it a good natural sedative. Although it is a relative of the Opium Poppy, it is not an opiate, so using it won’t cause dependence problems. Info gathered from www dot motherearthliving dot com. Nature here often uses Poppies, and other herbal plants, to put people to sleep for various reasons; whether to walk away from a ridiculous confrontation, or to sedate someone for a purpose. 
> 
> Read and review please~
> 
> ~S~


	26. A Gift to My Readers

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EDIT.

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THERE IS ONLY 1 PIN LEFT, FOLKS! Remember, these remaining giveaway pins are totally free, and I will even ship outside the US to their claimers. See below for more details!

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END EDIT.

Around February, I got into a very nice, under the desk paid job that was, of all things, offered to me by the nurse who gives me my allergy shots! I recently started planning a sort of gift event for all of my RotG readers - not just SaD, but the gift is centered around it! I honestly never truly intended for it to happen – more it was a sort of pipe-dream/wish I wanted to give to people, and back in July, I took the plunge!

So, my gift. What is it? A pic? A mini fic? Something I have to open my computer/smartphone to see?

Nope~!

** This is a literal, physical gift that can be requested by 10 of my readers. **

Let me explain a bit...

The Dark Spirits, the people born of Pitch's very shadow, have a patron flower. It is known as the Night Gladiolus, a flower that blooms at night. It is a flower symbolic of dignity, protection, courage, and love. Part of its name, 'Gladiolus' is a Latin root word for 'sword', and it has been the very sword and patron symbol of the Dark Spirits and their defense, honor and love of their King. The flower that grows in their sacred garden is an ethereal one, found nowhere else but in The Black Realm. And in times of justice, celebration, and even war, the Dark Spirits wear this flower as a symbol of their loyalty.

Often, this method of wearing the flower comes in the form of a pin.

 **10** of you can receive this pin absolutely for free. (picture available on my DA page, link below) 

**Full details and how to claim a pin -** https://sumi-sprite.deviantart.com/journal/A-Gift-to-my-SaD-Readers-703812515

I am making absolutely no charges for these **10** pins. However! _**Only 10 will be given out for free – first come, first serve. Even outside the USA.**_

See the information below for details!

 **I want a pin! How do I claim a free one?** Easy! All you have to do is contact me via the email shown on my DA journal (the link to the full how-to and contact info is linked below). This gives EVERYONE – including those who do not have a FF or DA account – to get a pin. Notice though if you contact me with spam, viruses, or solicitations, you will be hard-blocked and reported. Keep it clean, folks. (Email can be found on the DA link of this giveaway)

 **Does EVERYONE get a pin?** No. Only 10 pins will be given away for free!

 **I live outside the US, can I still get a pin?** Of course! If you live outside the US, you can still lay claim to one of the free pins.

 **I claimed a pin! Now what?** I will now communicate with you about methods of shipping and address. This will be especially detailed if you live outside the US! NOTICE, if you claim a pin, you can’t not provide me with an address to send it to. If you find you are not comfortable with disclosing an address, you probably shouldn’t participate in the giveaway. I also make no claims to responsibility if you receive your pin damaged, or if it is lost in the mail. 

**I missed the giveaway! Is there some way I can still get a pin?** Yes, there is! I ordered many of these custom pins. These 10 will be given away for free, but if you missed the event, you can also still purchase one off my Etsy shop! (Link is on the DA post of this giveaway)

 **Can I claim more than one pin?** No. Your claim to a free pin is for only ONE pin. You cannot ask for more than one, even if it’s for a friend or family member. If they want a pin, they also have to participate, or buy one off my Etsy. 

And that is it! You can be one of 10 people to claim a pin! Once all 10 claims are filled, I will close this giveaway by deleting this A/N. Remember! If you miss the giveaway, you can still purchase one off my Etsy (link to Etsy is on the DA link of this giveaway) 

This is my gift to you, my readers. I am so proud of this fic, and I wanted to thank my readers. It may seem like a fairly average number of reviews, watchers and followers, but I'm damn proud of it and all the work I have put into it. 

And if this pin project goes well, I will likely have a pin series made for other fics, such as Snakebite. And if the pin sales go well, I will consider making it my Etsy shop staple, and hold contests for pin designs. 

Thank you to all of my readers, and I wish you the absolute best of luck! If you have any questions, please contact me!

Much love to everyone! 

~S~


	27. L'appel du Vide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N~ Holy crap, guys. It’s here, the next chapter, the big reveal of many secrets and questions (but not all of them), and Time being an absolute asshole. AND I posted on Halloween! Whoo-hoo!_
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> _Before we move on though, I would sincerely like to thank my readers and the participants of my **SaD Pin giveaway**! It was an absolute success and I am so proud of this story! However, the giveaway is not done!_
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> _**THERE IS ONE PIN LEFT!** One pin to give away for free until people can only purchase it off my Etsy shop (link in my profile)! So, if you still want a pin, make a grab for it! You can find the information you need in the chapter before this one! Simply email me, contact me via IM to make a claim, or note me via DA to claim it! Remember, even if you live outside the US, I will still get it to you, no charges whatsoever. The other nine participants (one still waiting on their pin in the mail) have all received their pins and can vouch for my legitimacy!_
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> _Other than that, it would mean the world to me if others would go the extra mile and buy a pin off Etsy. I’m a college student preparing for my future after all, and any little thing helps, even an Etsy purchase._
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> _Thank you all so much, now on with the chapter! And afterwards, and **Intermission**!_
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> _**Song inspiration –** Pieces (Red), Dark On Me (Starset)._
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> **  
> _  
>  Edited by PaperGirlInAPaperTown.  
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>  **
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> _Enjoy and happy Halloween and Samhain’s Eve!_
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> __
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> ~S~

One would think that the stark whiteness of a bright void would be less disconcerting than endless blackness. One would think it would instigate feelings not of the unknown, but of all things possible. To be surrounded by endless possibilities. Surely it did not make one feel fear or uncertainty. Surely it would not overwhelm and make one feel so small and insignificant… 

Jack wanted to meet the people who ever thought such things – including himself from before seeing such vastness – and punch them in the mouth. 

A black void was frightening and made one lose their mind. The whiteness that surrounded Jack, Katherine and Nature was no different. However, it was distinct in the pain it brought. His eyes watered, his skin burned and tightened like bleached leather over his bones. For a scant second, he considered closing his eyes; but they already were. His eyelids were powerless to shut out the vast, ivory abyss that jeered at him. All-consuming and indiscriminate, its expanse was unperturbed by the thin hoods of skin.

Yet despite the blaring light, despite the agony of looking and not wanting to look, Jack could see. Not with his actual eyes, but with a sense of vision he was not able to put a name to. His mind’s eye perhaps? He could not be sure. 

Time had only _blinked_ , yet in that tiny fraction of a second, Jack, Nature and Katherine witnessed not Pitch’s execution, but a birth. 

All three had witnessed Time open his eyes and unleash the light of a celestial entity onto the frail Boogeyman. Not even a scream could be heard over the sheer power of the sun’s light. Jack was oddly reminded of old videos of nuclear explosions, of the descriptions of what would happen to a human being if they were ever caught in the cloud. How the skin would dissolve while blood boiled to a putrid sludge, how eyeballs would melt from crumbling skulls… All the while, that person would supposedly remain alive for a few agonizing seconds; too long to be humane.

Yet none of this happened to Pitch. Rather, the very light Time cast on him with his gaze burned itself down into every atom and iota of his being. Pinned to the rock, his skin charred black, his clothing burned away. Even his eyes ignited into coal-like orbs. And behind him…

_‘His shadow…’_ Jack thought dazedly. _‘Shadows need light. Light makes shadows, but only if something stands in its way…’_

The shadow falling against the back wall, though – it was not just a shadow. It did not look like the jagged rock Pitch was pinned to. From the moment the light branded Pitch to the rock, his head thrown back and hair wild, the shadow of the rock became the shadow of a young tree. Seared into the wall, abyssal blackness consuming the Boogeyman, Jack recalled the words of a gardener…

_“This is Pitch Black’s garden, the very witness of my own and my brothers’ and sisters’ birth…”_

He stared, eyes blurring – whether from tears or the light itself, Jack did not know. He did not care. He suddenly just _knew_ , and he could not make himself look away. A sharp ringing sounded in his ears, but he could just faintly hear Katherine yelling beside him. Muffled and frightened, he could pick out only a few words. Burned – murderer – killed him – what did you do? – _why?_

No one answered – no one that Jack could hear, that is. The light was gone in an Angel’s blink, and blinding blackness consumed him. He could still hear Katherine, and her voice was getting louder and clearer. And it wasn’t until Jack twitched a finger, and his closed eyelids fluttered, did he realize he was on the floor. 

He groaned, hands shaking as he pushed up onto his knees. He pried his eyes open, squinting painfully. He was struck with night blindness; temporary, but frightening. Though regardless of his empty sight, he could still _hear_. 

“You killed him!” he heard Katherine scream. Her voice, choked and watery, suggested she was on the verge of tears, or already crying. Nature was likely holding her back from going after Time again, too. “You killed him…!”

Jack heard Time chuckle, and it made him frown. Both Katherine and Time’s voices – they were coming from _behind_ him. 

_‘How…?’_ Jack blinked, willing his sight to return. 

“Yes, I did kill him,” Time’s disembodied voice said pleasantly, “I killed them both. Kozmotis and Pitch both are dead.”

Jack was starting to see spots of grey and muted white. Colors – few as they were – were restored to his vision, slowly shooing away the black blobs swimming in his eyes. He blinked rapidly, forcing his heavy head up to look around. He did not get a chance though, and found himself staring at…a tree trunk?

He heard Time walk up behind him, but Jack could pay him no mind. Rather, he forced himself further up onto his knees, craning his head to slowly look up with wide eyes.

“Kozmotis Pitchiner and Pitch Black no longer exist,” Time whispered behind him, “but in their place – in the place of a seed and a caterpillar – there now sleeps something beautiful.”

Jack said nothing, though he vaguely noted Katherine gasping behind him as he finally got a full look at what he was kneeling before. 

He gazed up at the young, drowsy tree that now stood in the place of the jagged, knife-like rock. Its branches were short and few, its leaves curled and flowers budding. The buds seemed to glow sleepily, their light pulsating slowly like the steady breath of a sleeping child. 

Jack flicked his head down when he felt something caress his fingers and legs. He watched in a stunned sort of fascination as the once barren floor seemed to come alive. Grass sprung from the dirt under him, the soft, dark green blades spreading throughout the entire cavern floor. 

Suddenly everything began to change. Patches of grass sprouted and expanded in an emerald flush. Long stems broke from the carpet of grass, rising higher, forming lethargic buds and tender leaves. He could not see where it was coming from, but Jack could hear the cavern walls cracking and opening, releasing the steady and soothing trickle of water. 

Life pulsated and slowly awakened within the dark cavern, somehow giving it a warm, yet coy golden glow. Jack gasped as a shaft of light suddenly fell over him. He looked up. 

There was a hole in the ceiling he had somehow missed. Yet…it was dark, but slowly getting brighter. His eyes narrowed, and he raised a hand up to shield his eyes as the light slowly seemed to peer around a black disk. He gasped in shock, opening his mouth to speak.

“The shadow of the moon has now passed over the sun, blessing this new entity with its warm light and comforting darkness . Now, the balance can be preserved…”

Jack did not fully register Time’s words. As it grew stronger, still subdued and gentle, the light illuminated something else on the tree he would not have seen had it remained dark. 

Seemingly attached to the tree’s trunk, where Pitch had been burned by the sun itself, was not a charred and gaping corpse. There now hung a gently curved mass wrapped in obsidian. Gentle curves tapered into sharp points, protruding from the tree like a narrow crescent. Jack could only stare at the mass – the cocoon – until he heard a soft cracking noise. He looked up past the cocoon, and at the long, narrow buds on the tree’s branches. Only, he now realized that not all of them were buds. Some of them hung from the branches and pointed downwards, slightly curved, and their forms more akin to shells than petals. There were dozens of them, and they were all moving, and opening.

_“This tree is the mirror representation of our King. And within its branches, his very arms, are his subjects.”_

The light of the cocoons grew, then faded as their occupants left their embrace and carried the gold light into their wings; butterflies.

_“They are Pitch’s. As I said, this tree represents Pitch himself. And these butterflies, they are the representation of us; his children.”_

Jack heard Katherine startle behind him, but he paid her no mind. He was too enthralled by the sleepy sighs whispering all around him, and the forms – silhouettes – that moved just within the tree’s taller foliage. Slowly waking from their lethargic limbo, and cloaked in the very shadows from which they were born, Jack witnessed each soul belonging to a butterfly rise from the exhausting ordeal of their birth. 

Eyes of various colors blinked slowly and tiredly, confused and disoriented. Yet they all, save a select few, shared the same trait; a burst of gold around a black pupil. They all had their king’s eyes, the gaze of the eclipse that made up who they were. 

As the cavern slowly completed its changes, so too did the cocoon upon the tree also begin to change. 

Cracks formed over it, the largest splitting vertically down its center. Charcoal-like flakes fell from the weakening chrysalis, the seams and cracks lighting with a weak gold gossamer. Jack startled when the whispers of the newborn spirits grew louder, followed by the soft rasp of bare, unsteady feet shuffling over the grass. He looked up and froze. Various, slumped forms surrounded the tree, all donned in silky, gauze-like slips of shadow. Their whispers grew, their gazes oblivious to everything, and focused intently – reverently – upon the hatchling cocoon. 

“He’s coming…”

“We know him, we came from him.”

“He is ours – we are his.”

“My chest hurts, it hurts…!”

“We all _love…_ ”

Jack returned his gaze to the cocoon when it gave an audible, stifling crack. Like an ancient relic touched by an unkind hand, it began to crumble into dust. Starting from its gaping crack, the obsidian and gilded shell fell into entropy. Slowly, it revealed its tenderly held occupant; an ashen form that was their blackest sun and warmest shadow. 

Pitch slipped from his cocoon and collapsed in an exhausted yet peaceful heap at the tree’s base. The locket once bound to his form slipped free of his loosely curled fingers, and the sword that once pinned him to the tree was gone. His body was bare, save for a sheer-like cloak about his shoulders, but unlike the others, it held specks of the same celestial gold flecks in its train. He had changed; he was no longer a rabid animal possessed by baseless fear and wrath. He was no longer a puppet-like corpse masquerading as a man. He was not even the Boogeyman Jack had first met that fateful Easter fifty years ago.

_This_ was the Pitch he was growing – hoping – to know. _This_ was the man he saw in his dream when he destroyed the parasitic entity in his heart and mind. _This_ was the man who embodied all that was foul and fair, who was no crueler than he was kind. _This man was…_

Jack choked on a sob, doubling over his knees and clutching at his chest. He heard more than saw the other dark spirits around him; their sobs and tears, their feet shaky and unsteady as they surrounded Pitch. The pain in his chest burned and urged him to reach one of his arms blindly towards Pitch. Jack’s teeth gritted as he forced himself to look up, to move, to be a _part_ of what he was feeling and witnessing. 

He blinked through his tears and shaky vision, and somewhere within him, he was shocked to see two spirits huddled close to and cradling the slumbering Boogeyman.

He recognized Sorrows, despite her tearstained cheeks, and the overly simple slip about her curvaceous body. Her hands were shaking, her wings quivering as she tugged at and fussed with her king’s cloak, her fingers touching ashen skin. Her free hand found one of Pitch’s, and she clasped at his palm like a child to her parent. 

He looked to the man taking up Pitch’s other side, and for a moment, Jack could only wonder at how wrong it was that Hal was not here to also see. Samhain cradled Pitch’s head to his shoulder, his black-painted lips pressed chastely to Pitch’s forehead, and his long, black-nailed fingers twining with another limp grey hand. 

Anguish and longing overwhelmed Jack, though he somehow could not explain _why_. He felt like an outsider that belonged inside, but all he could do was stand out in the cold and witness a beautiful and tender moment between a revered king and his children. 

_‘Go back…’_ he thought confusedly, _‘I…I want to go back…!’_

But go back to what?

Jack gasped when hauntingly familiar feathers touched his back. He did not need to look up to know Time was there. None of the dark spirits looked; they were far too enthralled by the man who gave them life and blood. The Angel chuckled.

“He will sleep,” he said.

“For how long?” Nature asked.

“One hundred years,” Time replied. “He will sleep for one hundred years, recovering from the birth of his own kin, and from becoming the patron and ruler of a celestial entity. It’s no small matter, obviously. The sun is one of the most powerful entities in our solar system, and for a creature both of shadows _and_ of golden light to take it in…”

“I don’t understand.”

This time, Jack did look up, but not at Time. Rather, to the one who shakily uttered those all too familiar words; Katherine. 

The girl was on her knees, staring in wide-eyed awe and confusion at all that she had witnessed. She was pale as a ghost, her eyes glassy and seemingly unable to focus on any one thing. The grass, the tree, the new spirits, Pitch himself; she did not know what she had witnessed, let alone how to comprehend any of it. 

Mercifully, it was Nature who spoke. Her shoulders dropped -- was she relieved, remorseful, or perhaps both? Regardless, she knelt beside Katherine and placed an unusually gentle hand upon the girl’s shoulder. 

“What you just witnessed was birth, child,” she said softly, “Birth and _change_. Pitch was not born evil, as you said. Kozmotis was born a kind and protective man. But, as with life, terrible things simply happen to good people for no reason.”

She looked up towards the dark spirits, watching in a sort of painful longing as they gently laid their king upon the grass with reverent hands. 

“Kozmotis – my father – never asked for this fate. But there is no asking to become something evil, something mad and _less_ than what one should be.”

Jack felt bewildered shock crackle through his bones. Her father… 

“But…!” Katherine choked on whatever she was about to say. Or perhaps she simply did not know what to say. Jack flinched when Time turned to look at Nature and Katherine, his wings coiling around Jack like sultry serpents.

“You will learn, child,” Time started, “that all is not as it seems. In the world of reality, there are simply not just ‘heroes’ and ‘villains’. In reality, good men are stolen and turned into wicked beasts. Little girls have their childhood, home and family stolen from them for no reason. And sometimes, the bad guy does not need to be defeated and vanquished. Rather, sometimes he just needs to die, and be reborn into something beloved.”

Jack felt Time’s wings tighten around him, and looked up at the temporal Angel as he smiled at Nature.

“It is time we took our leave, my dear,” he said.

Panic seized Jack’s chest and his head veered to look back at Pitch. Leave…? No, _no!_ He couldn’t leave! Not yet! Not yet…!

“No, please!” he rasped, trying to force his weak and heavy limbs to move, but Time’s wings held him in place. 

_‘Please, no! I can’t leave yet, I still…! I still need to talk to him, I need to see him! I’ll wait! I’ll wait a hundred years, a thousand years, just please, not yet…!’_

“Not yet…!” Jack sobbed as Time grasped him by the hood of his hoodie and hauled him to his feet. He remained limp and reaching as Time pinned his back to his chest, forcing Jack to look away from Pitch and at Nature and Katherine.

Something was odd though. Their faces seemed surprised and startled. Jack looked back at them in confusion, unsure as to why they were looking-

_Looking…_

Jack felt a heated vibration on his wrist, and he looked down. He blinked in confusion at the vine-like serpent binding his wrist, taking in its eerie, poison-green glow. Nature’s bind*. 

His eyes widened in shock, and he looked back at Nature and Katherine as realization dawned on him. They were _looking right at him_. They could _see_ him…

“Who…?” Nature shook head her, her obsidian eyes finding Time. Her expression turned wrathful and _horrified_. “What did you do? What have you done?!”

Jack felt Time chuckle against his back, but he only had eyes for Katherine, who stared back at him in a strange mixture of shock and familiarity. He blinked owlishly, exhausted and emotionally drained, but something in his chest stirred. He knew her from somewhere. He’d not seen her face properly up until now, but he was beginning to realize how _familiar_ she looked…

_‘Where have I seen her?’_ he wondered blearily.

Behind him, Time placed a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture, his smile wide, gentle; _cruel, plotting, anticipating…_

“What _will_ I do indeed?” he purred. 

Nature jumped to her feet with a swish of her dress, her fists clenched. Her eyes were wide with fury and horror.

“TIME-!”

Time laughed, and before Jack could voice question, protest or plea, his wings engulfed them both. A rush of time and space overcame them, and the very breath was squeezed from Jack’s lungs. Yet despite feeling his very organs compress, his every atom and ion be stretched apart to their limits, all Jack could think about was how much it _hurt_ being taken away from Pitch.

It was an oddly _familiar_ feeling.

“GUH…!” Jack grunted as he seemed to be thrown from the sudden temporal whirlwind and onto the floor of Time’s planetarium. He hissed as he forced himself up onto his hands and knees, coughing and hacking on his own dry throat. 

A soft rasp of angelic feathers gliding over the floor faintly broke through Jack’s resolve, and he forced himself to look up at – _scowl at_ – Father Time.

“Well? What did you think?” Time inquired.

Jack coughed, fingers scraping against the floor as he drew them into fists. “Take me back!”

“I am afraid I cannot do that, frostling,” Time said with a shrug.

Every muscle in Jack’s body stiffened and coiled. Emotions of explosive magnitude erupted inside him; anger, disbelief, hurt, confusion, more anger, longing. He did not have the wind here on Saturn, and his ice was weaker here. But he had his wrath, and he had his…

Jack paused, looking around the floor. He spun stiffly, eyes searching, nearly manic in their confusion and reeling emotions. He froze when a low, sultry chuckle left Time’s lips. Once more fighting every instinct, he slowly turned and looked at Time. His fury spiked when he once more found his staff held in the tender hands of the temporal Angel. 

“Tell me, frostling,” Time purred, fingers drumming over the length of Jack’s crook, “why do the seasons change?”

Jack snarled, and suddenly he was sprinting at Time. The Angel side-stepped the furious frost sprite when he made to throw a punch, watching in amusement as Jack, disoriented and angry, nearly tripped over his own two feet after missing his mark. 

“Why do humans grow old and die?” Time asked.

“Shut up!” Jack shouted, rushing back at Time. “Take me back!”

The Angel once more evaded Jack, this time becoming a blurred distortion in time and space, and appearing in the spot which Jack himself formerly stood. 

“Why do birds risk dying when they are forced to learn to fly?”

“I said, shut up and take me _back!_ ”

Time sighed, almost sounding irritated. This time, when Jack made to come at him again, he did not get out of the way. Instead, he shot a hand out and grasped Jack by the throat. Pivoting on his heels, Jack’s back and shoulders screamed in protest, a pained gasp lodged in his throat as he was pinned back-first against the Armillary table’s edge. He grunted as Time leaned over him, his fingers squeezing his throat.

“Why are dreams abandoned in favor of reality? Why are memories put away and forgotten? Why does wonder fade as one ages? Why does hope slowly die like a diseased animal? Why are _fun times_ abandoned the moment something better comes along?” Time inquired.

Jack nearly sobbed – out of anger and frustration, or hurt and confusion, or something else he could not put a name to, he did not know. His entire being was screaming at him to go back, but he did not even know where _back_ was!

“Please…!” he rasped, coughing weakly as Time’s palm pressed against his throat, “Please! Take me back…!”

“Answer me first, frostling,” Time said. 

Jack felt his resolve fracturing – or perhaps it was already broken, and he was simply feeling his already shattered emotions crumbling further. 

His head thumped softly against the tabletop, tears cascading from the corners of his eyes as he stared up at the domed ceiling in exhaustion. 

_Play the game…_

“I don’t know,” he gasped. “Why?”

Time loosened his hold on Jack’s throat. Finally freed from the chokehold, his legs weaker than a newborn lamb’s, Jack slid to the floor in a trembling heap. Defeated, he felt a gaping emptiness yawn open inside of him where his anger and wrath once resided. Now he now had nothing but exhaustion, a longing for something he could not find, and a cold sense of loneliness . He felt lost. And so very scared… 

He faintly flinched when Time reached down to tenderly cup his cheek, and Jack found he did not even have the strength to shove it away. Time smiled and knelt before the frost sprite, his wings lowering and pooling around him, like delicate flower petals blooming in the wake of dawn.

“It is because there simply is no reason,” he said softly, wiping away a stray tear on Jack’s cheek with his thumb. “Humans – and animals – simply grow up, and they learn that sometimes, the seasons change simply because that is what they do. Humans grow old and die because that is life. Birds must leap and hope they are ready to fly, otherwise they would simply never learn.”

Jack found himself looking up at Time, exhausted and lost, but focused. Time’s smile broadened.

“Dreams cannot support that which can be touched, so they must be traded in exchange for what can be _possible_. Memories age, and sometimes weigh down one’s resolve, and thus they need to be replaced with the _future_. Sometimes the world of wonder becomes stained in dull greys, so that people may _see_ that not all is as it seems. Sometimes hope is not enough to drive one towards their goals, and _initiative_ must be taken.” 

Time took Jack’s hand and placed his crook in his palm. He blinked slowly as Time tilted his chin up to look at him, his sightless gaze unrelenting. 

“Snowballs and fun times have their place, but here, right now…” Time’s smile widened, almost in anticipation of something no one else could see or feel. “What is it that truly prevents you from becoming something _more?_ ” 

Jack stared at Time, uncertain and confused. But something inside him stirred. Covered in dust, weary and weak; its very bones were worn and scraped to brittle splinters. But it was not going to let its one chance of escape pass it by – not this time. Never again. Not when its heart – its very garden – was renewed and free of its parasitic lies. It forced itself up, limbs like brittle spring-ice, and coated Jack’s very resolve in permafrost. Suddenly frozen, a solid pillar of nameless and faceless emotions, Jack stared right back at Time with unwavering determination.

Time’s smile was that of a poisonous snake; all sinewy curves and deadly fangs. Internally, Jack felt amusement bubble inside him; snakes did not blink, and he had only just seen Time blink once. 

Snakes did not blink. Time did not blink. Time was also blind, yet he saw everything. Did that mean snakes saw more than what most would think? Or did that make them blinder than something without eyes?

The saying, “Don’t blink or you’ll miss it,” suddenly came to mind. Jack stared at Time, entirely ignoring the disk-like gears suspended over the table, overlapping and activating the temporal-spatial device. Jack did not blink, but his vision was still blinded by a flash of inky blackness and florescent white. 

He saw _everything._

He saw a whole other world, far from the earth he knew. A man with a heart of gold that was slowly being consumed by a blackness resultant of war, and his separation from that which he loved and wished to protect. He had no choice; he had to protect that which he held dear. Why raise a family in a war-torn world, when you could go out and put a stop to it?

He saw the achingly familiar man that was not yet the whole person he longed to know. A war was won, but not complete. A guard was needed for the Fearlings’ prison, and a figurehead was needed to draw people’s attention away from those dark times. Heroes made sacrifices, and to put the villains in the gallows was _wrong_. Why risk losing the people’s reverence and your own control? Why erase the problem when you could turn the darkest times into the greatest heroic tales in the galaxies?

The shadows whispered to him. Locked in a hellish world with these mad creatures, imposed into willing – _had it been willing?_ – exile. He had saved his people, he had saved his family. Now they need not fear these monsters… Now they were safe and could live their lives in peace… But he was not to be a part of those times. No, he was destined to be locked away with the monsters he himself slayed and captured. The Lunanoffs needed a guard for the Fearling prison. And who better to guard the vengeful beasts than their captor himself? It is only sensible, for Kozmotis is the only one who can resist them. He is the hero, the knight of the Lunanoff house, the savior of the Golden Age. Why go home to the family you wish to protect, when you can die a martyr…? 

**_Why, indeed…_ **

_“Daddy? Daddy, where are you?!”_

**_And why, dear General, does a key to an eternal prison still exist?_ **

_“Help me, please! They’re hurting me…!”_

**_Why do YOU have it, in the middle of this prison?_**

_“Let me out, please! Daddy, it hurts!”_

**_Why do you have the key to the prison you are meant to keep locked until the day you die?_ **

_“Daddy, please!_

**_And why is your daughter in here with us?_ **

_“Daddy… **why did you open the door?** ”_

It had only taken that one simple mistake. He had resisted for so long, and he knew the truth. He knew the voice heard from within was not his daughter’s. She was not there, he would never see her again…!

…but she was right there. It sounded like her, it looked like her, she was there and those _things_ had her!

The door had been opened, and yet still, as the writhing, black abyss loomed over him, his daughter’s image dissolving, Kozmotis Pitchiner could only ask himself one thing…

_“Why…?”_

Everything had absolutely fallen apart. The Fearling War paled in comparison to the slaughter that reaped itself upon the once Golden General’s world. An entire civilization of magic and exploration – it was all destroyed and consumed by the darkness and fear he now controlled. 

Love is such a fickle emotion. Kozmotis fought to protect his family so they may grow and thrive. He had been foolish to think he could come back and be part of that future. But war is such a filthy thing. It stains the mind, taints the soul and carves and gouges hatred and wrath into the heart. Deception though…that only makes things so much worse. You expect the sun to rise and shine on the future you desire. But when you look up, when the blood is flowing and the screams have quieted, when the war is won…

How that smiling Moon _laughs._

Pitch survives the fall, and all Manfred needs to do to protect the lovely children of earth from him – to make them just like himself, to make them fearless and forever innocent – is to assemble some toy soldiers. Just like his father before him, he creates not one, but four heroes to be his pawns, to vanquish the monster he does not want lurking in the shadows. 

The little moon child, who has never known fear, has been stranded, trapped within Earth’s orbit. How fun though; to play in zero-gravity, to have his whole childhood be catered to by Moonbots and Lunar Moths. He has grown physically, but he has never grown up. He’s safe now. The Boogeyman is gone, and the Moon’s toys are here to stay.

Or so he thinks.

Time and Nature will not have such a world of black and white . No, Nature demands the Boogeyman’s life be saved. The world cannot exist without fear, without shadows, without that which is foul and fair, cherished and despised. The world cannot belong to children alone. She had long since learned this in her time drifting through space, consumed by anger and the dwindling expectations of her heroic father. No, this world – her world, their world – cannot not be twisted so.

Time simply smiles and agrees. 

Kozmotis and Pitch are destroyed by Time, and are reborn into something beloved. He sleeps, his children surrounding him. He awakes after one hundred years, and slowly, the world begins to change. Black and white are bleeding into one another, creating foggy greys that demand exploration, but no soul is quite brave enough to venture within. 

Death and birth are by far the foulest and fairest teachers. And to witness the very death and rebirth of a man that embodies both…surely, such witnesses can no longer remain children. 

Time follows Katherine with a smile. She grows in mind, body and soul. When she is returned to her fellow Guardians, she speaks not of what she’s witnessed. She merely tells them that Pitch is now gone, that the war is over. She is not the same though. She looks around at the world, and she sees things differently. She sees less of the things she saw as a child, and more of the things she could never see if she remained one. She smiles in play with Nightlight, but their games grow shorter as time passes. Baby teeth fall from her mouth, their memories faint and few. She grows taller, her play fleeting, and her eyes gazing back in longing to the human world.

Nightlight is confused. The deeper Katherine falls into her adulthood, the duller his light becomes. He is growing cold. It is getting dark. And he is getting scared…

And one day, she simply…vanishes. 

They are frantic. The Guardians search for her, despite knowing what happened. A mortal cannot stay in the immortal world. And if an immortal entity so chooses to take back their humanity, then there is no place for them in the realm of magic. 

Growing up means leaving things and people behind. It means trading the simple action of looking forward to moving forward. She has grown too old in mind, heart and soul to remain a child in body. Katherine simply left.

And without his child, his one true friend, his reason for lighting up the night…

A Nightlight cannot exist without a child that needs it. A child who no longer needs a Nightlight shuts it off and puts it away. Nightlight no longer has his child – no Katherine, no Manfred – and so, he has no reason to exist. 

The Moon once smiled. But after its Nightlight’s life is snuffed out by despair…

_Wrath._

_How dare she grow up?_

_How dare those shadows make her into something foul and fair? How dare they turn one of his own against him? How dare they break his toy?_

_They took his toy. They took away his Nightlight. They will try to take them away again, he knows it._

_Unacceptable…_

A child’s mind is malleable, but a man’s mind is brittle. Manfred is no man, nor is he a child. Does that make his mind brittle, or malleable? Nightlight’s Oblivion will decide. For while he is a child of mind and a man in body, his mind cannot break or bend.

But it can be _twisted._

Time passes. 

A single arrow of golden sand, and a man born of the purest black and Nature’s earth. A small boy of fire and amber blood, of a heart as black as night and laden with fiery embers. A life has been stolen. But more than that, the Guardians have destroyed a father’s son, and stolen the father of a fiery child. 

_As the Moon’s predecessors stole the Golden General from his daughter and wife, so too did his pawns repeat their crimes…_

War is called for, but it never comes. They are scattered and frightened, sickened and saddened. But Pitch is not going to risk more lives lost. What father would dare put his other children at risk for revenge? What man would turn his wards into tools for petty play and revenge?

_Manfred would, and he has. The Guardians were none the wiser either. After all, good toys don’t question their child’s play…_

A war is never waged. A prince is forced to murder his monarch, and the bloody crown is placed on his head centuries too soon. Hal takes the throne of Sleepy Hallow, a child now forced to bear the weight of a frightened and angry kingdom. 

The Moon still smiles and _laughs._

The world is changing, ever shifting. The demons of the Dark Ages are now gone; locked within a prison stronger than the ones the Fearlings were held in so long ago. And this time, there is no key. There is only a door, and a secret to opening it. The king watches over his subjects, tired and afraid; afraid for them, for their survival, for their world…

_“You cannot see me anymore.”_

_“This is madness! You cannot just tell us to stay away!”_

_“I can, and I have.” A weary sigh left black painted lips. “Halistair…”_

_“Don’t you DARE…”_

_“It is the only way! The Guardians have been biting at my heels for centuries, and they now know the connection I have to you and the others! I have to protect you and the others! Look what happened to Samhain! He had only been walking beside me, and they took his life for that simple fact!”_

_Silence. Remorse. A parent’s sorrow. A God’s heartache._

_“I’m sorry, but I will not apologize for this.” ___

___“You can’t…”_ _ _

___“By my orders, the orders of your King and God, I hereby forbid you and all of my children from having contact with me. I decree this so that I may protect you all, and if any of you disobey this order…”_ _ _

___Eyes colored like candy-corn stared at their king, begging him to say no more, to take back the binding order he would have no choice but to obey. Pitch would not have it though._ _ _

___If it meant protecting his people, then he would _hurt _them…___ _ _

_____“I will **never** forgive you.”_ _ _ _ _

____Such words, spoken by mortal and immortal alike, are often hollow and weightless. Such words are often shouted in the heat of the moment, by mouths both young and old. They hardly ever mean anything. But to be spoken by one’s God, and to his own children…_ _ _ _

_____“Stay away.”_ _ _ _ _

____Time still marches on. The Guardians remain oblivious and ignorant toys. The Gate remains closed, its secret safe. And the Moon still smiles._ _ _ _

____But it is growing bored now. His toys are so compliant and loyal, but they are growing old. They are stale and busy, keeping children as young and innocent for as long as they can. It is wonderful, but he wants _more_. He is bored with them, and so wishes for a new toy. _ _ _ _

____And suddenly Jack sees _himself_._ _ _ _

____He sees his birth. He sees his family; his father, his sister… _his mother.__ _ _ _

_____Katherine ._ _ _ _ _

____He is but a boy, free and wild as can be, regardless of the harshest times. He is a wonderful and kind brother to his little sister, and a devoted son to his mother. His father died when he was young, but despite the responsibilities piled on his shoulders, he has never faltered. He has grown in body, but he’s a child at heart. He exists to make his sister and the village children laugh and smile, to preserve their innocence for as long as he can._ _ _ _

____Such humans are rare…such _toys_ are rare. _ _ _ _

_____The Moon smiles._ _ _ _ _

____His toy has been stolen, but she leaves behind a part of her he can now take. He is so much like Nightlight, so free and bright. He can get them both back now! He will get both of his toys back, and everything will be better!_ _ _ _

____Teachers lurk in the darkest, coldest places though. And like his mother, Jack will bear witness to such lessons. And unlike Nightlight, he will not resist its embrace._ _ _ _

____The crackle of ice, and the shaky fear of a little girl. Bare feet hold steady on the thin ice, resolve steeled and focused; not fearless, but not frozen with fright._ _ _ _

_____‘I never should have taken her on the ice,’_ the mortal boy thinks in despair and determination, _‘I knew it was dangerous. I knew it was too late in the season. It’s too warm, the ice was thin. All the other lakes and ponds have thawed, but still I…’__ _ _ _

____Remorse. Pleas for forgiveness. Pleas for her life. He can repent for his mistakes later; he will give his life if he had to, just _please…spare her.__ _ _ _

_____“JACK!”_ _ _ _ _

____His prayers are answered, and he falls…_ _ _ _

____And falls…_ _ _ _

____And falls…_ _ _ _

_____And falls…_ _ _ _ _

____And suddenly, he stops._ _ _ _

____The cold wraps all around him and seeps into his blood, becoming a part of his entire being. A touch of winter – _a gift.__ _ _ _

____The darkness blinds him, the unknown encompassing him. Its depths are endless, yawning and abyssal. He is but a speck drifting in its great vastness – _a reminder.__ _ _ _

____And fear _embraces_ him. It fills him, but it never overwhelms him. It whispers his name, chaste and sharp. Scolding and soothing. Foul and fair…_ _ _ _

____He dies in the cold darkness, the fear for his beloved little sister all but selfish. It is pure as the blackest ink, warm as the brightest sun._ _ _ _

____He has been reborn in the embrace of Pitch Black ._ _ _ _

____He is no longer human. He is no longer afraid of the blackness._ _ _ _

____He is now its _child_._ _ _ _

_____**UNACCEPTABLE…** _ _ _ _ _

____Katherine has been taken into the mortal adult world. Pitch’s influence has stolen her – _has stolen HIS toy!_ So, he has taken away one of Pitch’s own beloved toys through the Sandman, about to reclaim not one, but two lost toys; his Nightlight and his Katherine._ _ _ _

____And Pitch has stolen them _ **AGAIN.**__ _ _ _

_____**“THEY ARE MINE!”** _ _ _ _ _

____Deep within the abyss of the pond, Moonbeams reach and grasp at Jack as he falls into Pitch’s warm and black embrace. The shadowy man startles as his child is grabbed, black-sun eyes finding the Moon snarling down at him._ _ _ _

_____“They are **MINE…!** ”_ _ _ _ _

____The Moon is often called a thief, for he steals the light of the sun so that he may glow in the night. And now, he wishes to steal Pitch’s child, his newest little butterfly. His own last light…_ _ _ _

_____“Rise.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Rise!”_ _ _ _ _

_____“RISE!”_ _ _ _ _

_____“RISE!”_ _ _ _ _

____A child stolen…a father and a God’s last light taken and claimed by the Moon. Memories of a black embrace, warm and cold stolen from Jack’s mind. A bond…it has been broken – no, _violated_. Pitch and Jack have been _violated.__ _ _ _

____He takes his first gasp of breath as the Moon brings him out of the ice – out of Pitch’s embrace, out of the warm darkness, away from…! – and with a voice only to be heard once, ties Jack’s torn bond to himself._ _ _ _

_____“Your name is Jack Frost.”_ _ _ _ _

____Names are powerful things, and to receive and accept a name from a higher power, before one’s true father can give it to him…*_ _ _ _

____And the man of the blackest sun and the warmest shadows weeps._ _ _ _

_____“You took him from me…! You took them ALL from me! You murdered Samhain, you forced my hand in exiling myself to keep them all safe! And now…now you take him? My last light? You would VIOLATE us both just to have another toy…?”_ _ _ _ _

____Grief, it is said, can drive one to madness…_ _ _ _

____And it is all too easy to succumb. To reawaken the demons imprisoned inside of you. The demons once under your control, now free as your heart – their prison – breaks._ _ _ _

____Ancient spirits such as Pitch are patient. And they know that a simple grain of sand is all it takes to tip the scales. Even if it takes a hundred, two hundred, three hundred years…_ _ _ _

____The Moon smiles._ _ _ _

____And Jack _wakes up.__ _ _ _

____He blinked once, twice, as if clearing the temporal visions from his sight. Time smiled widely, rising to his feet to stare down at Jack._ _ _ _

____“The Moon is a liar, a thief, and a madman,” he purred. “His Guardians were once loyal, unshakable pawns. Now they lay in tatters as they finally look up and question their master. But what of you, dear frostling?”_ _ _ _

____Jack’s hands clenched impossibly tight around his staff, his entire form _shaking. _____ _ _

______Time smiled._ _ _ _ _ _

______“You are many things, little one. The Spirit of Fun, a once beloved childhood friend, a herald of winter…”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Jack raised himself to his feet, never once faltering despite his trembling. Time’s smile widened._ _ _ _ _ _

______“But what are you really?” he asked. “Are you a Guardian? A stolen ward? A toy soldier?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______The frigid, _furious _gaze that met Time only made his wings rustle in anticipation. Bony fingers, clutching around a staff tight enough to splinter wood, relaxed only enough to slide away from each other to hold the staff akimbo.___ _ _ _ _ _

________“Or are you a King’s Knight?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Jagged ice encompassed Jack, his teeth clenched and snarling, and eyes wide in a wild and hellish winter _fury.__ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________The wrathful, frigid howl accompanying the bone-brittle snap of a staff could have swooned a banshee and fractured space itself._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Time laughed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________And somewhere, the Moon _screamed.__ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________To be continued…_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N~ And the plot THICKENS. Hahaha! Who here predicted that Jack was Pitch’s ward and stolen by Manny, and that he needed to break his staff to free himself? A lot of you I’m guessing. Hah, kind of obvious. But anyways, I’m so excited that we have now reached another turning point! And after this, you will be moving onto an **Intermission** to reveal even more secrets, and then the next chapter! 
> 
> I cannot tell you how stressed I was getting to the last few parts of this. I wanted to get this updated before or on Halloween, and lo and behold, I get it done sooner (on the 26th). I’m so proud of this story, and I am so grateful to all my supporting readers, reviewers, even those who don’t review but follow adamantly! 
> 
> **The SaD Pin Giveaway** was a HUGE success, and as I said in the first A/N, **there is only one left!** And even if it gets claimed, and you want one, you can still order one off my Etsy! (Link in my profile!)
> 
>  
> 
> Get ready folks, **Solitude and Darkness** is now definitely coming to its end, perhaps ten or so chapters left! I’m so excited but also terrified of it ending. It’s been such a long, yet exhilarating ride, not to mention one of my longest and most challenging stories. I took up SaD as a challenge and a prompt fill originally, but now it has evolved into something so much more, and I am so proud of it!
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you all so much, and I will see you in the upcoming **Intermission** , and the following chapters!
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> 1.) In chapter 8, **Madness and Peace** , Nature bound the Guardians with serpentine vines to act as restraints and tracking monitors. Since her brand of magic is so ambiguous and fluid, it can even activate and respond to her from another timeline – in this case, herself from the past. It can take a while for the cuff to respond to a past or future version of its maker, much like a temporal buffering, but Nature and her element are not linear. As such, it was only a matter of time until she sensed it just as Time allowed Jack to be seen in that current time-setting. 
> 
> 2.) Names are often VERY prominently emphasized in the spirit and faerie world, and event he pagan society. Many pagans have secondary, ‘true’ names they give themselves and often tell no one about. To know these true names – and even a spirit’s given name – gives one power over them. Names are thrown around in the mortal world because we hardly care about them. In this world though, to give someone a name is to put a huge brand on them. In this case, Manny stole Jack, branded him like cattle, and locked him up in solitude for 300 years, just to get back at Pitch.
> 
> _~S~_

**Author's Note:**

> Check out this same fic on my FF.net page where it is update before it is here!  
> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9153154/1/Solitude-and-Darkness


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